University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


MEMORIES  OF 
BUFFALO  BILL 

By  His  Wife 
LOUISA  F.  CODY 

In  Collaboration  with  Courtney  Ryley  Cooper 

AN  intimate  biography  of  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  characters 
in  American  history,  pulsating  with 
all  the  excitement  of  the  old  Wild 
West.  From  the  day  that  Louisa 
Frederici  met  Buffalo  Bill  and  slapped 
his  face  to  the  day  of  the  great 
Indian  fighter's  death,  life  was  a 
series  of  wonderful  adventures  for 
both  of  them — adventures  that  Mrs. 
Buffalo  Bill  recounts  with  intense 
vividness  and  charm  of  style.  She 
tells  of  Buffalo  Bill's  whirlwind  court- 
ship, of  his  life  as  a  pioneer,  of  his 
success  as  an  Indian  fighter  and  as 
the  avenger  of  Ouster's  massacre,  and 
of  the  organization  of  the  world- 
famous  Wild  West  Show.  There  are 
countless  thrilling  stories  of  battles, 
of  danger  and  hair  breadth  escapes; 
innumerable  amusing  anecdotes  of 
Buffalo  Bill's  stage  experience  and  of 
the  friendship  between  the  members 
of  the  Wild  West  Show.  This  book 
is  a  thrilling  story,  an  important 
human  document  and  a  unique  picture 
of  the  West  fifty  years  ago. 
Cloth,  $2.50  net. 

This  is  an  Appleton  Book 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


373 


MEMORIES 
OF   BUFFALO    BILL 


COLONEL  WILLIAM  F.  CODY 
"BUFFALO  BILL" 


M  EMORI  ES 

OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

BY  HIS  WIFE,  LOUISA  FREDERICI 
CODY,  IN  COLLABORATION  WITH 
COURTNEY  RYLEY  COOPER 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK    :    LONDON    :    MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1010,  by 

TED  CTTBTIB  PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THB  UNJTBD  STATES  OF 


MEM    OKIES 
OF    BUFFALO    BILL 


MEMORIES 
OF  BUFFALO  BILL 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  more  than  a  half  century  ago,  May  1, 
1865,  to  be  exact.  The  twinge  of  early  spring 
had  not  yet  left  the  air,  and  I  sat  curled  up  in  a 
big  chair  in  front  of  the  grate  fire  in  our  little 
home  in  Old  Frenchtown,  St.  Louis. 

There  was  a  reason  for  the  fact  that  we  lived 
in  Frenchtown;  it  carried  a  thought  of  home  to 
my  father,  John  Frederici,  who  saw  in  it  an  echo 
of  Alsace-Lorraine,  where  he  was  born,  and 
where  he  lived  until  the  call  of  America  brought 
his  parents  to  this  country.  And  so,  when  it  had 
become  necessary  for  him  to  move  into  town  from 
his  farm  on  the  Merrimac  River,  near  St.  Louis, 
he  had  naturally  chosen  Frenchtown,  with  its 
quaint  old  houses  of  Chateau  Avenue,  its  ram- 
bling, ancient,  French  market,  and  its  people, 
reminiscent  in  customs  and  in  language  of  the 

1 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

country  whence  he  came.  My  mother,  plain 
American  that  she  was,  with  the  plainer  name 
of  Smith,  nevertheless  understood  my  father's 
yearnings  and  enjoyed  with  him  the  community 
in  which  he  found  pleasure.  And  so,  in  French- 
town  we  lived  and  were  happy. 

For  my  part,  on  that  evening,  I  was  especially 
happy.  My  convent  days  were  over,  and  my  age 
had  reached  that  point  when  my  mother  would 
only  smile  and  nod  her  head  at  the  thought  of 
beaux.  And  to-night,  I  was  to  have  two! 

One  I  had  seen  many  times  before,  Louis 
Reiber,  who  once  or  twice  had  told  me  that  he 
liked  me  very  much,  and  who,  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  had  shown  that  he  could  be  fully  as 
jealous  as  any  young  beau  could  be  expected  to 
appear.  The  other  I  did  not  know — even  his 
name.  I  was  sure  of  only  one  thing,  the  fact 
that  my  cousin,  William  McDonald,  had  asked 
for  the  privilege  of  bringing  him  out  and  had 
explained  that  he  was  a  young  man  who  had 
fought  well  on  the  Union  side  in  the  Civil  War, 
and  that  he  believed  I  would  like  him. 

So,  comfortable  in  the  knowledge  of  having 
two  young  men  to  talk  to,  I  was  even  more  com- 
fortable in  the  fact  that  I  was  curled  up  in  the 

2 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

big  chair  before  the  fire  reading  the  exciting  ad- 
ventures of  some  persecuted  duchess  and  a  hein- 
ous duke,  as  they  trailed  in  and  out  of  the  pages 
of  the  old  Family  Fireside.  Upstairs,  my  sister, 
Elizabeth,  preparing  also  for  an  engagement  that 
evening,  sang  and  hummed  as  she  arranged  her 
toilet.  The  fire  crackled  comfortably;  the  ad- 
ventures of  the  duke  and  duchess  through  their 
sheer  nonsensical  melodrama  began  to  have  a 
bromidic  effect  upon  me.  I  nodded — 

Suddenly  to  scramble  wildly,  to  scream,  then 
to  struggle  to  my  feet  as  I  felt  the  chair  pulled 
suddenly  from  beneath  me.  I  heard  some  one 
laugh ;  then  I  whirled  angrily  and  my  right  hand 
sped  through  the  air. 

"Will  McDonald!"  I  cried  as  I  felt  my  hand 
strike  flesh,  "if  you  ever  do  that  again,  I'll 

Then  I  stopped  and  blushed  and  stammered. 
For  I  had  slapped,  full  in  the  mouth,  a  young 
man  I  never  before  had  seen! 

The  young  man  rubbed  his  lips  ruefully,  eyed 
me  for  a  second,  then  began  to  laugh.  My 
cousin,  doubled  over  with  joy  at  the  unexpected 
success  of  his  joke,  at  last  managed  to  choke  out 
the  words : 

"Louisa,  this  is  the  young  man  I  told  you 

8 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

about.  Allow  me  to  present  Private  William 
Frederick  Cody  of  the  United  States  Army." 

I  stammered  out  some  sort  of  an  acknowledg- 
ment. My  face  was  burning,  and  if  I  only  could 
have  had  the  chance,  I  would  have  given  almost 
anything  to  have  pulled  out,  separately  and  with 
the  most  exquisite  torture,  every  hair  on  the  head 
of  that  rollicking  cousin.  But  Private  Cody  did 
not  seem  to  notice.  He  rubbed  his  lips  with  his 
handkerchief,  and  then,  his  eyes  twinkling,  an- 
swered: 

"I  believe — I  believe  Miss  Frederic!  and  I  have 
met  before." 

"Where?"  I  asked  innocently. 

"In  battle,"  came  the  answer,  and  I  flounced 
out  of  the  room. 

Nor  would  I  return  until  my  cousin  had  sought 
me  out  and  apologized  voluminously  for  his  prac- 
tical joke. 

"I  just  couldn't  resist  the  temptation,"  he 
begged.  "I'll  never  do  it  again,  honest.  And 
listen,  Louisa,  if  you'll  forgive  me,  we'll  have  all 
our  fun  to-night  at  Lou  Reiber's  expense.  You 
know  how  jealous  he  is.  Well,  you  and  Will 
Cody  just  pretend  that  you've  known  each  other 
a  long  time  and  we'll  have  plenty  to  laugh  about. 

4 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Won't  you  now — like  a  good  girl,  if  I  buy  you 
some  flowers — won't  you?" 

"And  a  box  of  candy?" 

"Yes,  and  a  box  of  candy.  But  from  the  way 
Cody  looks  at  you,  I'm  thinking  that  he'll  be  the 
one " 

"Will  McDonald!" 

"Well,  it's  the  truth.  He  didn't  take  his  eyes 
off  you." 

"How  could  he  help  it?"  I  asked  acidly.  "If 
I  were  a  man  and  a  girl  jumped  out  of  a  chair 
and  slapped  me  in  the  mouth,  I  would  want  to 
see  what  she  looked  like,  too.  Oh,  Will,"  and  my 
lips  quivered,  "he'll  think  I'm  a  regular  vixen." 

"No,   he   won't — honestly,   Louisa "    and 

he  petted  me.  "Come  on  now — please,  like  a 
good  girl.  Lou  Reiber  will  be  here  almost  any 
moment." 

So  I  returned,  while  Private  Cody  apologized 
very  seriously,  while  I  spent  the  time  noticing 
that  he  was  tall  and  straight  and  strong,  that  his 
hair  was  jet  black,  his  features  finely  molded, 
and  his  eyes  clear  and  sharp,  determined  and  yet 
kindly,  with  a  twinkle  in  them  even  while  he  most 
seriously  told  me  how  sorry  he  was  that  he  had 
hurt  my  feelings. 

5 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

And  he  was  handsome,  about  the  most  hand- 
some man  I  ever  had  seen !  I  never  knew  until 
that  evening  how  wonderful  the  blue  uniform  of 
the  common  soldier  could  be.  Clean  shaven,  the 
ruddiness  of  health  glowing  in  his  cheeks ;  grace- 
ful, lithe,  smooth  in  his  movements  and  in  the 
modulations  of  his  speech,  he  was  quite  the  most 
wonderful  man  I  had  ever  known,  and  I  almost 
bit  my  tongue  to  keep  from  telling  him  so. 

The  apologies  over,  and  Will  McDonald  safely 
planted  in  a  corner  where  he  could  do  no  more 
harm,  we  joked  and  chatted  and  planned  for  the 
arrival  of  Louis  Reiber.  When  he  came,  We  were 
to  act  as  though  we  had  known  each  other  for 
years,  and,  in  fact,  appear  mildly  infatuated. 

"And  if  he  asks  us  where  we  knew  each  other, 
I'll  think  of  some  foolish  thing  to  say  that  will 
make  him  wonder  more  than  ever,"  said  Private 
Cody.  "We'll  just  make  him  guess  about  every- 
thing." 

"But  if  I've  known  you  so  long,"  I  countered, 
"certainly  I  wouldn't  call  you  simply  Private 
Cody  or  Mr.  Cody.  That  is— at  least,  if  I'd 
known  you  as  long  as  I'm  supposed ' 

"Certainly  not."  He  was  chuckling  at  the  pre- 
dicament I'd  gotten  myself  into.  "You'd  call 

6 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

me  Willie,  just  like  my  mother  used  to  do." 

"But "  it  was  my  first  chance  at  repartee, 

"you  don't  look  like  the  sort  of  a  man  to  be  called 
Willie.    Do  all  men  call  you  Willie?" 

"Men  call  me  'Bill/  "  came  simply,  and  there 
was  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  I  had  not  seen  before, 
a  serious,  almost  somber  glint.  "Only  one  per- 
son has  ever  called  me  'Willie.'  That  was  my 
mother — I've  always  been  just  a  little  boy  to  her, 
and  she  liked  the  name.  And  because  she  liked 
it,  I  liked  it.  You  are  the  only  other  person  I 
ever  have  asked  to  call  me  by  the  name." 

I  held  out  my  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Willie,"  I  said  seriously.  Then 
he  chuckled  again. 

"All  right,  Louisa.    Now,  that's  settled." 

And  so,  when  Louis  Reiber  arrived,  I  hurried 
to  him  with  the  information  that  I  wanted  him 
to  meet  a  very  old  and  dear  friend  of  mine,  Pri- 
vate Willie  Cody  of  the  United  States  Army. 
Mr.  Reiber's  black  eyes  flashed. 

"I  don't  believe  I've  ever  heard  you  mention 
him,"  he  said  somewhat  ungraciously.  Mr.  Cody 
smiled. 

"But  that  doesn't  mean  I  haven't  been  in  her 
thoughts,  does  it,  Louisa?" 

7 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

The  mention  of  my  Christian  name  caused  Mr. 
Reiber  to  stare  harder  than  ever. 

"I  thought  you  were  joking  at  first,"  he  began. 
"Now,  I  really  believe  you're  in  earnest.  Tell 
me,  how  long  have  you  known  each  other?" 

"Oh,  for  a  long  time,"  I  bantered.  "Haven't 
we,  Willie?" 

"A  very  long  time,"  he  answered. 

Then  the  conversation  switched,  only  to  be 
brought  back  by  Mr.  Reiber  to  the  subject  of  our 
acquaintance.  We  played  him  between  us,  teased 
him  and  tormented  him,  and  at  last,  in  answer  to 
one  of  his  questions,  Mr.  Cody  leaned  forward  in 
mock  seriousness. 

"If  you  want  to  know  the  truth,"  he  said,  "I'll 
tell  it  for  the  first  time.  Louisa  and  I  are  to  be 
married." 

"You're  engaged?"  Louis  Reiber  sat  straight 
up  in  his  chair. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Mr.  Cody.  Then  he 
turned  to  me.  "Isn't  that  the  truth?" 

"The  absolute  truth,"  I  answered. 

Louis  Reiber  fidgeted. 

"But — where  did  you  meet  each  other?  Of 
course,  I  understand,  I  haven't  any  right  to  ask 

the  question,  but  I'd  really  like  to  know.  I 

8 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"If  you'll  promise  never  to  tell?"  Mr.  Cody 
held  up  a  hand  in  a  mock  oath. 

"Why — why  certainly." 

"Well "  and  the  corners  of  Will  Cody's 

lips  curled  in  spite  of  his  attempt  to  be  serious — 
"when  I  went  out  of  the  penitentiary,  she  went 
in!" 

"Willie  Cody,  how  dare  you!"  I  giggled. 

"Well,  he  wanted  information." 

I  remember  that  it  was  just  about  that  time 
that  Mr.  Reiber  ran  a  finger  around  his  collar, 
and  rose. 

"I — I'm  sorry  I  can't  stay  any  longer,"  he  said 
at  last.  "I  just  dropped  in  for  a  moment.  I 
rather  promised  Miss  Lu  Point  that  I'd  come  by 
this  evening."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "I  cer- 
tainly congratulate  you,  Mr.  Cody." 

"Oh,  I  congratulate  myself,"  Will  agreed. 

"And  I  feel  very  happy  about  it  too,"  I  added. 

"So  do  I,"  chimed  in  Will  McDonald,  who  had 
listened,  grinning,  all  the  while.  "You  see,  I'm 
really  the  one  who  arranged  it." 

Mr.  Reiber  didn't  say  a  word  to  him — he  just 
looked,  and  that  was  enough.  Then  he  bade  us 
good-night,  and  we  laughed  at  what  we  thought 
was  the  great  joke  that  we  had  played  on  him.  I 

9 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

was  especially  struck  by  the  humor  and  nonsense 
of  it  all.  But  the  next  morning,  I  realized  that 
it  wasn't  as  nonsensical  as  I  had  imagined,  for 
bright  and  early,  a  messenger  boy  was  waiting 
with  a  letter  for  me.  I  never  had  seen  the  writing 
before,  but  the  moment  I  began  to  read,  I  knew. 
It  was  from  the  handsome  young  man  of  the 
night  before,  the  man  whose  eyes  always  twinkled 
and  whose  lips  were  continually  smiling,  and  I 
couldn't  help  wondering  whether  this  was  a  con- 
tinuance of  the  joke. 

The  letter  long  ago  was  lost,  but  I  always  will 
remember  the  sense  of  it.  It  ran  something  like 
this: 

MY  DEAR  LOUISA: 

I  know  you  will  forgive  me  for  calling  you  this — be- 
cause you  will  always  be  Louisa  to  me,  just  as  I  will  be 
glad  if  I  may  always  be  Willie  to  you. 

We  joked  a  great  deal  last  night.  I  realize  now,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  not  all  joking.  May  I  call  again,  to- 
night? 

Respectfully, 
WILLIE. 

I  left  the  messenger  at  the  door  and  hurried, 
somewhat  panic-stricken,  to  my  sister,  Elizabeth. 

"Certainly  not,"  she  said  wisely.  "If  you  let 
him  come  to-night,  he'll  begin  to  believe  that  you 
think  something  of  him." 

10 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 
"Well,"  I  hesitated,  "he's— he's  terribly  hand- 


some." 


She  looked  at  me  sharply. 

"That  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it.  If  he 
thinks  enough  of  you  to  really  want  to  come,  he'll 
ask  again.  Tell  him  that  you're  very  sorry,  but 
that  you  have  an  engagement  for  this  evening 
and-  -" 

"Then,  suppose  he  should  never  ask  again,"  I 
faltered. 

"Just  you  see,"  she  answered  wisely.  "A  man 
never  likes  to  get  what  he  wants  right  away." 

"But  I'd— I'd  like  to  see  him  a  great  deal." 

"Then  what  did  you  ask  my  advice  for?" 

So,  dutifully  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  very  re- 
gretful note,  telling  him  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  come  that  evening,  but  that  I  hoped  that 
he  would  not  leave  the  city  without  making  an- 
other effort.  I  gave  it  to  the  messenger  with  mis- 
givings and  watched  him  as  he  hurried  down  the 
street,  wishing  that  a  girl's  life  was  not  bound 
with  so  many  conventions  and  that — well,  that 
he'd  come  anyway. 

But  he  didn't.  The  next  day,  it  was  necessary 
for  me  to  go  into  the  downtown  district,  and  ac- 
cording to  the  fashion — for  the  weather  had 

11 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

changed  and  the  sun  was  blazing  hot — I  wore  the 
several  veils  which  were  then  believed  so  neces- 
sary to  protect  one's  complexion  against  sun- 
burn. 

So  heavy  were  they  that  I  could  hardly  see,  and 
like  all  other  girls,  I  groped  my  way  through  the 
downtown  district  and  back  home  again  without 
recognizing  any  one.  But  an  hour  or  so  after  I 
had  returned,  I  realized  that  while  I  had  not  seen 
any  one  I  knew,  some  one  else  had  seen  me.  A 
messenger  was  at  the  door,  and  this  time  I  knew 
the  writing.  It  was  poetry,  and  I'll  never  for- 
get it: 

"The  blazing  sun  of  brilliant  day- 
May  veil  the  light  of  stars  above, 
But  no  amount  of  heavy  veils 
Can  e'er  deceive  the  eyes  of  love." 

Then  at  the  bottom  was  written: 

"I  am  not  going  to  ask  this  time.  I  hope  I  may  see 
you  this  evening." 

And  while  the  locusts  sang  in  the  old  trees  that 
lined  the  street  that  evening,  he  came,  and  I  heard 
later  that  the  children  playing  along  the  street — 
always  an  encyclopedia  of  information  regarding 
my  callers — announced  among  themselves  that  I 
had  a  new  and  very  handsome  beau.  As  for  my- 

12 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

self,  I'm  afraid  that  I  was  not  very  self-possessed. 
I  had  never  met  a  man  exactly  like  him  before. 

It  was  very  warm  that  evening,  and  so  we 
abandoned  indoors  for  the  coolness  of  the  porch. 
For  awhile,  we  talked  of  nonentities,  while  the 
children  played  about  the  sidewalk  and  while  the 
family  came  and  went.  At  last,  the  lazy  evening 
changed  to  night,  the  locust  ceased  its  singing  in 
the  maples,  and  the  lamp-lighter,  his  ladder 
slanted  across  his  shoulder,  made  his  trip  along 
the  old  street.  Will  and  I  had  seated  ourselves 
on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  I  leaning  against  one 
pillar,  he  against  another,  across  the  way.  Sud- 
denly he  changed  position  and  came  nearer  me. 

"You're  not  angry?"  he  asked.  We  were  alone 
now. 

"About  what?" 

"That  poetry?" 

"Of  course  not.  But  you  didn't  make  it  up. 
You  copied  it  from  something." 

"Honestly  I  made  up  every  word  of  it,"  he  pro- 
tested. "I  thought  it  was  real  good." 

"So  did  I — only  I  couldn't  see  much  sense  to 
it."  I  wouldn't  tell  him,  of  course,  that  I  had  it 
right  with  me  that  moment.  "I  couldn't  under- 
stand it  at  all." 

13 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Well,"  and  he  laughed,  "I  ffuess  I'm  better 
at  killing  Indians." 

"Sho'  now,"  I  looked  toward  him  with  inter- 
est, "did  you  ever  kill  an  Indian?" 

"A  good  many,"  came  quietly.  "I  killed  my 
first  one  when  I  was  eleven  years  old." 

"Yes,"  I  laughed,  "just  like  you  and  I  were 
friends  for  years  and  engaged  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  Willie  Cody,  can't  you  ever  be  seri- 
ous?" 

But  when  he  answered  me,  there  was  a  differ- 
ent note  in  his  voice,  a  note  of  sadness  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  jovial,  rollicking  tone  that  usual- 
ly was  there. 

"I  killed  my  first  Indian  when  I  was  eleven 
years  old,"  came  the  slow  repetition.  "Sometimes 
I  think  I've  been  fighting  my  way  through  life 
ever  since  the  day  I  was  born.  Not  that  I'm 
sorry,"  he  added  quickly;  "it  was  my  own  life  and 
I  chose  it  and  I  wouldn't  give  it  up — but  it  hasn't 
been  easy." 

"And  you've  really  killed  Indians?"  The 
thought  was  uppermost  in  my  mind.  St.  Louis, 
it  is  true,  was  far  West  then,  and  we  saw  Indians 
now  and  then  who  came  into  the  city  from  beyond 
the  borders  of  civilization,  but  they,  as  a  rule, 

U 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

were  friendly  scouts  who  had  joined  the  Union 
forces  and  were  acting  as  guides  for  the  various 
contingents  of  the  United  States  Army  operating 
in  Missouri.  To  us,  the  land  of  the  buffalo,  the 
war  whoop  and  the  tomahawk  was  far  away — 
for  Leavenworth,  Denver,  and  cities  that  now  are 
but  a  ride  of  a  day  or  two  from  St.  Louis,  were 
then,  through  the  lack  of  transportation,  far  in 
the  distance. 

The  real  West  began  at  Kansas  City — West- 
port,  it  was  called  then — and  from  there  came 
many  a  harrowing  story  of  bloodshed,  of  Indian 
attacks  and  outlawry.  And  to  actually  look  on 
some  one  who  had  been  through  this,  who  could 
talk  calmly  of  having  killed  Indians,  and  of  hav- 
ing killed  his  first  Indian  when  he  was  nothing 
more  than  a  boy,  was  something  I  never  before 
had  experienced.  To  me,  it  was  wonderful.  But 
to  Will  Cody,  sitting  by  my  side,  it  was  only  a 
recital  of  a  hard,  grueling  childhood  and  youth, 
spent  in  the  midst  of  turmoil  and  danger. 

"I  can't  remember  much  else  but  hard  knocks," 
he  said  at  last.  "The  first  one  came  when  I  was 
seven  years  old.  We'd  moved  to  a  place  called 
Walnut  Grove  Farm,  in  Scott  County,  Iowa, 
near  where  I  was  born." 

15 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"When?"  I  asked. 

"When  was  I  born?  In  Scott  County,  Febru- 
ary 26,  1845." 

"Then  you're  only  twenty  years  old?" 

"That's  right,"  he  laughed — a  short  hard  laugh 
that  I  did  not  like.  "But  I've  seen  enough  and 
done  enough  to  make  it  seem  longer.  It  all  be- 
gan when  Samuel — he  was  my  brother — was 
killed.  He  was  twelve.  I  was  only  about  seven. 
We'd  gone  out  on  horseback  together  to  bring  in 
the  cows.  Sam's  horse  reared  and  fell  on  him.  I 
dragged  him  forth,  crying  over  him  and  trying  to 
bring  him  back  to  consciousness,  but  I  could  not, 
and  I  had  to  jump  to  my  horse  again  and  ride  to 
find  my  father  and  tell  him  about  it — leaving  my 
brother  dying.  There  wasn't  a  chance  for  him — 
he  died  the  next  morning,  and  soon  after  that  my 
father  decided  to  emigrate.  We  were  all  glad. 
I  was  more  glad  than  the  others ;  I  wanted  to  get 
away.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  always  see 
that  horse  just  as  it  toppled  and  fell,  and  hear 
Sam  screaming  beneath  it." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  then  went  on — as 
though  he  felt  I  should  know  the  whole  story  of 
all  that  he  had  done,  all  that  he  had  experienced 

16 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

before  that  night  when  I  jumped  from  my  chair 
and  slapped  him. 

"Kansas  wasn't  even  as  well  settled  then  as  it 
is  now,"  he  began  again,  "but  my  father  decided 
to  go  there,  and  bundled  up  my  mother  and  all 
of  the  children,  Martha  and  Julia  and  Nellie — 
Mary  and  Charles,  my  other  sister  and  brother, 
were  born  later — and  with  an  old  carriage,  three 
wagons  and  some  horses,  we  started  out. 

"When  we  got  to  Weston,  Missouri,  my  father 
decided  to  stay  a  while  with  his  brother,  Elijah, 
who  ran  a  trading  post  there ;  then  we  went  on  to 
Fort  Leavenworth.  The  cholera  was  raging 
then.  Every  once  in  a  while  we  would  see  some 
Mormon  emigrant  train  stopped  along  the  road 
to  bury  its  dead,  and  as  we  would  pass  the  place 
we  would  hold  our  breath  to  keep  from  catching 
the  disease.  At  last  father  established  a  camp 
near  Rively's  trading  post,  on  the  Kickapoo 
agency,  and  I  came  to  know  men  who  carried 
guns  and  knives  and  who  fought  just  for  the  love 
of  killing. 

"While  we  were  there  an  uncle  who  had  been 
in  California  came  to  visit  us.  His  name  was 
Horace  Billings  and  he  was  an  expert  rider.  I 
liked  him,  he  liked  me,  and  he  taught  me  to  ride. 

17 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Then  we  went  out  to  hunt  wild  horses  together 
— he  had  taught  me  to  use  a  lasso,  and  I  could 
handle  it  pretty  well." 

"Wild  horses?"  I  asked.  My  eyes  were  wide. 
"I  didn't  know " 

"A  number  of  them  had  escaped  a  year  or  so 
before  from  the  government  reservation  at 
Leavenworth,"  Will  answered. 

"But  weren't  you  afraid?" 

"A  little— at  first,"  he  agreed. 

"But  your  mother — didn't  she  object?" 

Will  Cody  laid  a  hand  on  my  arm. 

"My  mother  always  objected,"  came  his  an- 
swer. "But  she  never  said  'no'  to  me.  The  night 
I  went  away  on  my  first  hunt,  she  cried,  but  she 
did  not  let  me  know  it.  We  were  very  poor — 
almost,"  and  he  laughed — "as  poor  as  I  am  right 
now.  And  the  government  was  paying  ten  dol- 
lars a  head  for  every  horse  that  was  recovered." 

"And  you  slept  outdoors  and  everything  like 
that?" 

"Of  course,"  he  answered  me.  "And  killed  our 
own  game  and  cooked  it.  So  you  see,  I  began 
getting  my  education  early.  My  uncle  had  had 
some  schooling  and  in  what  time  we  had  around 
the  camp  fire  at  night,  he  taught  me  the  things 

18 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

that  my  mother  would  have  liked  for  me  to  have 
learned.  But  at  the  same  time,  I  was  learning 
more  about  how  to  ride  and  how  to  shoot  and 
handle  myself  on  the  plains. 

"We  kept  that  up  for  a  while,  then  my  uncle 
decided  to  rove  on  again  and  I  went  back  home. 
About  that  time,  the  Enabling  Act  for  Kansas 
territory  had  gone  through  and  there  was  a  rush 
into  the  country.  Every  trail  seemed  to  be  loaded 
with  emigrant  wagons,  and  I  saw  more  than  one 
homestead  staked  out  with  whisky  bottles. 

"It  was  a  while  after  this  that  the  slavery  ques- 
tion came  up  and  my  father  announced  himself 
as  an  abolitionist.  Nearly  every  one  was  against 
him  and  one  night  they  all  gathered  at  the  trad- 
ing post  and  forced  him  to  make  a  speech.  While 
he  was  telling  them  his  views,  the  crowd  started 
at  him  and  one  of  them  stabbed  him.  That's 
why  I'm  in  this  uniform." 

I  remember  how  tightly  I  clenched  my  hands. 

"And  they  killed  him!"  I  exclaimed.  But  in 
the  half  darkness,  I  could  see  Will  Cody  shake 
his  head. 

"No — worse.  They  only  injured  him  so  badly 
that  he  laid  for  weeks  in  danger  of  death.  We 
got  him  away  that  night  and  hid  him.  After  that, 

19 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

it  was  almost  a  constant  thing  for  bands  of  pro- 
slavery  men  to  come  to  the  house  hunting  him. 
One  night,  a  group  of  them  on  horseback  sur- 
rounded the  house,  and,  weak  as  he  was,  my 
father  was  forced  to  disguise  himself  in  my 
mother's  bonnet  and  dress  and  shawl  and  hide  in 
a  cornfield  three  days,  until  we  could  find  the 
chance  to  get  him  to  Fort  Leavenworth. 

"After  that,  we  moved  to  Grasshopper  Falls, 
Kansas,  thinking  to  get  away  from  the  pro- 
slavery  men,  but  it  wasn't  much  use.  My  father 
was  building  a  sawmill  there,  and  one  night  a 
hired  man  came  hurrying  home  to  tell  us  of  a  plot 
to  kill  father  at  the  mill.  Mother  called  me  and 
put  me  on  Prince,  my  horse,  and  started  me  to 
save  my  father. 

"I  rode  about  seven  miles  when  I  suddenly 
came  on  a  group  of  men.  One  of  them  started 
for  me. 

"'There's  that  old  abolitionist's  son,'  he 
shouted,  and  commanded  me  to  halt,  but  I  kept 
on.  They  started  after  me,  but  I  was  light  on 
Prince's  back  and  I  outdistanced  them.  I  warned 
father  and  we  hurried  to  Lawrence,  where  he 
joined  the  Free  State  men,  who  protected  him. 

"But  there  never  was  any  peace  after  that. 
20 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

The  pro-slavery  men  came  to  our  house  regular- 
ly; once  mother  only  drove  them  away  by  pre- 
tending there  was  a  large  body  of  armed  men  in 
the  house.  At  another  time,  they  stole  my  horse, 
Prince.  Often  they  would  come  and  ransack  the 
place,  taking  everything  of  value.  My  father 
could  not  stay  at  home,  and  money  was  scarce. 
I  went  to  work  for  Russell  and  Majors  who 
owned  a  great  many  wagon  trains  and  cattle, 
herding  for  them  at  twenty  -five  dollars  a  month. 
And  then  I  was  only  ten  years  old." 

It  all  seemed  inconceivable.  And  yet  there  was 
something  about  the  quiet,  modest  seriousness  of 
the  tone  that  told  me  that  every  word  he  was 
speaking  was  the  truth.  There  were  no  frills 
about  Will  Cody's  story  as  he  told  it  to  me  that 
night  on  the  porch,  no  embellishments — it  was 
only  the  natural  story  of  a  young  man  who  had 
faced  hardships  and  who,  no  doubt,  was  forget- 
ting more  than  he  told.  After  a  moment,  he  went 
on  again : 

"Things  kept  up  that  way  until  1857 — with  the 
exception  of  the  fact  that  I  went  home  for  a  while 
and  went  to  school.  Then,  my  father  died,  al- 
most as  a  direct  result  of  that  stab  wound,  and  I 
was  left  to  be  the  provider  for  the  family.  I  went 

21 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

back  to  the  people  I  had  worked  for  before,  Rus- 
sell and  Majors,  and  was  detailed  to  ride  with  a 
herd  of  beef  cattle,  under  Frank  and  William 
McCarthy,  for  General  Albert  Sidney  Johnson's 
army,  which  was  being  sent  across  the  plains  to 
fight  the  Mormons. 

"We  got  along  all  right  until  we  got  to  Plum 
Creek  on  the  South  Platte  River,  west  of  old  Fort 
Kearney.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  shots  began  to 
sound  and  we  heard  the  war  whoop  of  Indians. 
We  had  been  camping  and  jumped  to  our  feet. 
Already  the  cattle  had  been  stampeded  by  the 
Indians  who  had  shot  and  killed  the  three  men 
guarding  them. 

"I  was  only  eleven  years  old  then  and  I  guess 
I  was  scared."  He  laughed  at  the  recollection  of 
it.  "I  don't  remember  much  until  I  heard  Frank 
McCarthy  tell  us  to  make  a  break  for  a  little 
creek,  and  I  was  running  as  fast  as  I  could.  The 
bank  gave  us  good  protection  and  we  started  to 
make  our  way  back  to  Fort  Kearney. 

"Of  course,  I  was  the  youngest  of  the  party, 
and  I  fell  behind.  By  and  by  night  came  and  the 
moon  came  out,  and  I  got  more  scared  than  ever. 
All  of  a  sudden  I  heard  a  grunt  from  above  and 
looked  up  on  the  creek  bank  to  see  an  Indian 

22 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

staring  about  him.  My  gun  went  to  my  shoulder 
and  I  had  fired  almost  before  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing.  There  was  a  whoop,  and  then  an  Indian 
tumbled  over  the  bank — stone  dead." 

There  on  the  porch,  listening  to  the  quiet  re- 
cital, I  felt  a  shiver  run  through  me.  I  had  al- 
ways been  romantic,  dreaming  of  adventures  and 
of  weird  happenings — just  like  many  another 
convent-bred  girl — but  I  never  had  imagined  that 
I  ever  would  meet  a  man  who  had  killed  an  In- 
dian. I  think  my  teeth  must  have  chattered  a 
bit,  because  I  remember  Will  moving  closer  and 
saying  to  me: 

"Am  I  scaring  you?'' 

"No — not  at  all,"  I  hastened  to  answer,  "it's — 
just  a  little  chilly." 

"Shall  we  go  in  the  house?' 

"No — let's  stay  out  here.  And  tell  me  some 
more.  What  happened  next?" 

"Well,  nothing  much  happened  right  then. 
The  rest  of  the  men  came  back  and  I  immediate- 
ly got  brave  and  told  them  how  easily  I  had 
done  the  trick.  And  whether  I  was  scared  or 
not — it  wasn't  such  very  bad  work,  was  it?" 

I  admitted  that  it  wasn't,  and  asked  for  more. 
For  I  had  found  some  one  who  was  infinitely 

23 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

more  interesting  than  the  Family  Fireside. 
That  was  only  so  much  paper.  Here  was  a  young 
man  who  had  lived  more  adventures  than  the 
paper  ever  had  printed.  So  he  went  on  with  his 
story: 

"I  guess  that  must  have  initiated  me,  because 
things  moved  pretty  fast  after  that.  The  In- 
dian must  have  been  a  lone  scout,  as  we  made  our 
way  to  Fort  Kearney  safely,  got  the  troops, 
started  after  the  Indians,  and  went  with  them. 
But  all  we  found  was  the  place  where  the  camp 
had  been  and  the  three  bodies  of  the  men  who 
had  been  killed.  The  cattle  were  gone — as  well 
as  the  Indians.  So  we  buried  our  dead  and  went 
back  to  Leavenworth. 

"After  that,  I  got  a  job  as  an  extra  hand  with 
the  wagon  trains  that  were  going  across  the  plains 
for  Russell,  Majors  and  Waddell — they'd  taken 
in  a  new  partner  and  had  about  six  thousand 
wagons  and  seventy-five  thousand  oxen.  Some 
of  the  men  abused  me,  and  one  tried  to  beat  me 
one  night,  when  a  plainsman  named  'Wild  Bill* 
Hickok  stepped  in  and  helped  me.  He  was  about 
twenty  years  old  then  and  had  already  killed 
three  or  four  men,  and  when  the  rest  of  the  train- 
men saw  he'd  taken  me  for  a  friend,  they  were 

24 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

afraid  to  abuse  me  any  more.  'Wild  Bill'  and  I 
are  still  friends.  You'll  meet  him  some  day,"  he 
added  with  a  queer  inflection. 

"Why  will  I  meet  him?"  I  asked  quickly. 

"You'll  meet  him,  all  right,"  Will  answered. 
"Just  wait  and  see." 

"I'd  like  to  see  how  a  man  with  a  name  like 
that  looks,"  I  confessed.  "But  go  on.  Tell  me 


some  more." 


"It's  all  about  the  same  after  that,"  he  told  me. 
"I  became  a  bull  whacker  for  a  while,  hunted 
buffalo,  and  then  was  a  pony  express  rider.  For 
a  while  I  did  some  trapping  on  Prairie  Dog 
Creek." 

"And  did  you  kill  any  more  Indians?" 

"Six  or  eight,  maybe  more." 

"Tell  me  about  them." 

Will  laughed. 

"You  won't  sleep  a  wink  if  I  do.  Anyway, 
there  isn't  so  much  to  killing  Indians.  If  you  get 
the  first  shot,  it  isn't  any  trouble  at  all.  Of 
course,  if  they  surprise  you,  that's  different.  I've 
been  in  both  fixes — but  I  got  out  all  right.  It 
was  a  lot  worse  up  on  Prairie  Dog  Creek.  I 
broke  my  leg  up  there  and  had  to  lay  in  a  dugout 
for  twenty  days  while  my  partner  hunted  out 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

oxen  that  had  strayed  away.  But  still,  I  got 
along  all  right ;  he'd  laid  my  rations  right  beside 
me.  Only,  I  got  snowed  in  and  it  was  pretty  cold. 
So  after  that,  I  went  back  home  and  went  to 
school  for  a  while." 

"Is  it  very  hard  riding  pony  express?"  I  re- 
member asking.  Will  Cody  laughed. 

"Well,  try  it  once,"  he  answered.  "I  rode  three 
hundred  and  twenty-two  miles  once,  with  rest  of 
only  a  few  hours  at  a  stretch." 

"When  was  that?" 

"Just  a  little  while  after  I  broke  my  leg." 

"Will  Cody,"  I  asked,  "are  you  trying  to  fool 
me?" 

"I'm  only  telling  you  what  happened,"  was  his 
answer.  "And  I'm  not  going  to  hide  anything — 
even  the  fact  that  I've  been  an  outlaw." 

"You?" 

"My  mother  called  me  that.  I  thought  it  was 
honest  and  just.  After  I  went  to  school  for  a 
while,  I  turned  back  to  the  plains,  rode  pony  ex- 
press and  handled  wagon  trains.  Then  the  war 
broke  out,  and  I  went  back  to  Leavenworth  and 
joined  Chandler's  gang." 

"Chandler's  gang — the  horse  thieves?" 

"I  guess  you've  got  the  same  opinion  of  it  that 
26 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

my  mother  had,"  came  slowly.  "I  didn't  look 
at  it  that  way.  We  only  fought  the  slavers.  And 
didn't  I  have  cause  to  fight  them?"  he  asked  bit- 
terly. "Didn't  one  of  them  stab  my  father — and 
didn't  he  die  from  the  wound?  Didn't  they  hound 
us  and  harry  us  and  keep  us  in  misery  every 
minute  that  my  father  was  alive?  I  thought  that 
I  had  a  right  to  hound  them  too  and  drive  off  their 
horses  and  cattle  and  make  life  miserable  for 
them.  That's  why  I  joined  Chandler  and  became 
a  jay-hawker.  Then  mother  heard  about  it,  and 
the  next  time  I  came  home,  she  told  me  that  it 
was  wrong.  And  I  quit.  My  mother  always 
knew.  The  next  year  she  died — and  then  I  went 
into  the  army 'as  a  scout.  I  knew  that  was  hon- 
orable." 

"And  then  you  came  to  St.  Louis,"  I  broke 
in. 

"That's  what  I  did.  And  a  pretty  girl  slapped 
me  in  the  mouth." 

"Well,  you  know  I  didn't  mean  to." 

"And  said  that  my  poetry  didn't  mean  any- 
thing." 

"Well,"  I  answered  truthfully,  "I  couldn't  get 
much  sense  out  of  it." 

"Maybe  I  couldn't  put  the  sense  into  it,"  he 
27 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

said,  and  rose  abruptly.  "You  see,  I  haven't  been 
so  sensible  lately.  A  man  never  is  when  he's  in 
love.  Good-night." 

He  stepped  down  from  the  porch  and  went 
down  the  street  without  looking  back.  But  I 
watched  after  him,  making  his  way  through  the 
shadows,  watched  after  him  with  the  happy,  con- 
fident knowledge  that  only  a  girl  can  have  when 
she  has  suddenly  awakened  to  the  fact  that  she  is 
in  love  with  a  man — and  that  the  man  is  in  love 
with  her. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOWEVER,  the  fact  that  I  was  in  love  with  the 
man  who  later  was  to  become  Buffalo  Bill  did  not 
mean  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  become  his 
wife,  if  he  asked  me.  I  believe  that  neither  of  us 
were  thinking  of  that  then.  In  fact,  in  spite  of 
our  rather  tumultuous  entrance  into  a  love  affair, 
there  was  an  element  of  steadiness  about  it  all 
which  we  both  realized  and  which  we  both  under- 
stood. I  had  been  reared  in  a  convent.  My 
range  of  vision  had  not  been  large,  my  scope  of 
reading  had  always  been  toward  the  romantic  and 
the  adventurous,  and  I  felt  it  natural  that  I 
should  become  fascinated  by  a  man  who  had  lived 
so  eventful  a  life  as  William  Frederick  Cody. 
But  whether  subsequent  events,  new  traits  of 
character  remaining  to  be  discovered,  other  at- 
tributes of  the  nature  of  the  man  I  loved  almost 
before  I  knew  him,  would  change  my  ideas  to- 
ward him,  I  did  not  know,  nor  could  I  know  until 
time  had  told  its  story.  That  was  more  than  fifty 
years  ago,  as  I  have  said.  Time  has  since  had  its 

29 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

say,  and  to-day  I  feel  toward  the  memory  of 
Buffalo  Bill  as  I  did  toward  his  living  self  that 
night  on  the  porch  in  Old  Frenchtown.  He  is 
still  my  ideal — yes,  and  my  idol. 

As  for  Will,  something  of  the  same  sentiment 
no  doubt  existed  in  him.  He  had  been  for  years 
on  the  plains,  where  he  had  seen  few  women  he 
could  even  respect,  much  less  care  for.  Just  prior 
to  the  time  he  met  me,  he  had  been  in  the  army 
and  had  seen  no  feminine  person  at  all  that  he 
could  meet  on  a  social  basis.  And  therefore  he 
had  his  grounds  for  consideration  as  well  as  I. 

And  I  must  say  that  we  occupied  our  time  well 
in  studying  each  other — though,  of  course,  no  one 
would  have  called  our  meetings  exactly  by  that 
name.  The  next  day  Will  was  back  at  the  house 
again,  and  the  next  after  that.  On  the  third  day, 
I  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  dressed 
in  my  best,  when  one  of  the  children  of  the  block 
came  to  me  and  cuddled  in  my  lap. 

"Who're  you  waiting  for?"  she  asked  in- 
nocently. 

"Oh,  some  one." 

"Is  it  the  tall  one?" 

"The  tall  one?"  I  parried  evasively. 
30 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Yes,  with  the  black  hair,  who  walks  so 
straight." 

I  confessed.  A  second  more  and  she  was  out 
of  my  lap  and  bounding  toward  the  street. 

"That's  who  she's  waiting  for,"  she  cried.  "I 
knew  it  was — I  knew  it  was.  She's  waiting  for 
the  tall  beau,  the  handsome  one." 

"Huh!"  A  boy  who  had  been  rolling  a  hoop, 
stopped  and  looked  toward  me  and  my  reddened 
face.  "Lookit  her  blush.  Eee — yeh — yeh — she's 
waiting  for  her  handsome  beau  and " 

"Tommie  Francesco!"  I  called  out,  "you  stop 
this  instant.  Don't  you  dare " 

But  he  had  already  gathered  reinforcements, 
and  a  line  of  children  was  on  the  sidewalk,  point- 
ing their  fingers  at  me  and  crying: 

"Louisa's  mad 
And   I    am   glad 
And  I  know  how  to  please  her! 
A  bottle  of  wine 
To  make  her  fine 
And  her  handsome  beau  to  squeeze  her !" 

Then  they  scattered — for  the  "handsome  beau" 
was  coming  down  the  street — scattered,  leaving 
only  the  urchin  of  the  hoop  behind.  I  had  started 
from  the  porch  to  paddle  every  one  of  them,  and 

31 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

suddenly  stopped,  blushing  and  angry — and  try- 
ing to  keep  from  laughing  at  the  same  time. 
Will's  voice  boomed  forth: 

"What's  all  this  shouting  down  here?" 

"Oh,  it's  these  children,"  I  answered,  "I  wish 
they'd  stay  at  home  and " 

"We  didn't  do  anything,  Mister,"  broke  in 
Tommie  Francesco.  "We  just  asked  her  who 
was  coming  to  see  her  to-night,  and  she  got  mad 
about  it." 

"Well,"  and  Will  chuckled,  "you  needn't  ask 
her  any  more.  If  you  want  to  know,  I'll  tell  you. 
I'm  the  one  that's  coming  to  see  her  and  if  she'll 
let  me,  I'll  be  coming  to  see  her  every  evening 
from  now  on.  So  run  along  and  don't  worry 
about  it." 

Then,  little  thinking  that  he  had  spread  the 
news  of  a  practical  engagement  through  the 
whole  of  gossipy,  interested  Frenchtown,  he 
came  chuckling  and  laughing  to  the  porch.  I 
guess  my  eyes  were  blazing,  because  he  stopped 
and  looked  at  me  queerly. 

"Don't  you  know  what  you've  done?"  I  asked. 

"No— what?" 

"Why,  every  one  of  those  children  will  run 
right  home  and  tell  what  you  said." 

32 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Well,"  he  boomed,  "let  'em  tell.  It's  the 
truth,  isn't  it?" 

And  that  was  Will  Cody,  then  and  afterwards. 
His  faith  in  humanity  was  almost  childlike  in  its 
sincerity;  his  belief  in  the  whole-heartedness  of 

others  was  founded  upon  his  own  whole-hearted- 

t 

ness  and  his  generosity. 

Thus  began  our  courtship — if  we  ever  had  one. 
I  have  often  wondered  whether  a  man  and  a 
woman  who  declare  on  their  first  meeting  that 
they  are  to  be  married  have  a  courtship  or  an 
engagement.  Nevertheless,  whatever  it  was, 
there  were  few  hours  of  the  day  when  we  were 
not  together  during  the  month  that  followed  his 
first  visit  to  our  house.  He  was  at  that  time  sta- 
tioned in  St.  Louis,  awaiting  the  mustering  out 
of  his  regiment,  and  passes  were  easily  procur- 
able. The  result  was  that  every  evening  found 
me  sitting  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  porch  and 
some  child  of  the  neighborhood  hurrying  along 
the  walk  to  inform  me  that  "my  handsome  beau" 
had  just  been  sighted  far  down  the  street. 

Then  came  May  30,  and  his  discharge  from  the 
army.  That  night  we  said  good-by  in  the  moon- 
light-splattered shadows  of  the  old  maples,  and 
he  hesitated  as  he  started  away. 

33 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something — and  if  I  asked 
you  would  you  be  mad?" 

"No,  I  won't  be  mad,  Will.    What  is  it?" 
"If  I  asked  you  to  go  back  with  me— 
"Wait,"  I  told  him,  and  ran  into  the  house.    I 
found  a  photograph  and  wrote  on  it,  "Maybe- 
sometime,"  and  took  it  out  to  him.    "Look  at  this 
when  you  get  back  to  your  hotel,"  I  told  him. 
And  then,  very  discreetly  and  very  formally,  we 
shook  hands  in  good-by.    As  he  went  up  the  street 
— about  a  block  away — I  saw  him  take  the  pic- 
ture out  from  beneath  his  coat  and  look  at  it  under 
the  street-light,  then  go  on  again. 

The  next  morning  I  got  a  letter,  and  it  con- 
tained another  poetic  effort.  But  I'm  afraid  that 
it  wasn't  the  best  in  the  world — even  though  I 
thought  it  very  pretty  at  the  time.  Will  had 
tried  to  work  in  the  thought  of  "maybe  sometime" 
in  verse  and  it  simply  wouldn't  fit  into  the  meter. 
But,  as  I  said,  I  thought  it  very  good  at  the  time, 
and  never  once  did  there  enter  into  my  mind  the 
incongruity  of  a  man  who  had  earned  a  living  by 
fighting  Indians  and  undergoing  hardships,  writ- 
ing verse.  Some  way,  it  was  the  natural  thing 
for  him  to  do — for  the  West  to-day  is  the  best 
example  I  know  that  Buffalo  Bill  was  a  dreamer 

34 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

and  a  poet ;  and  the  free,  wild  life  he  led  was  only 
an  expression  of  the  yearning  of  a  thing  that 
could  not  bear  fettering.  The  West  to-day  is 
Buffalo  Bill's  dream  come  true,  and  when  he 
died,  there  were  thousands  who  testified  to  it. 

But  in  the  spring  of  1865,  I  was  not  thinking 
of  those  things,  not  stopping  to  analyze  why  an 
Indian  fighter  and  a  born  adventurer  should  like 
poetry.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  lonely  and  that 
I  was  in  love  and  that  I  was  falling  more  in  love 
every  day.  Will  had  gone  back  to  Leavenworth, 
Kansas,  whence  he  wrote  me  of  hunting  and 
wagon-train  trips,  all  made  in  the  hope  of  gain- 
ing a  little  money  for  that  "Maybe — sometime," 
and  of  the  time  when  he  could  return  to  St. 
Louis.  That  time  came  sooner  than  either  he  or 
I  expected. 

It  was  a  brisk  morning  in  October  that  I  an- 
swered a  knock  on  the  door,  to  find  him  standing 
before  me,  his  eyes  old,  his  face  haggard.  There 
were  lines  about  his  lips,  and  his  features  had  the 
appearance  of  one  who  had  seen  deepest  suffer- 
ing. 

"Charlie's  dead,"  he  said  simply  as  he  entered. 

Charlie  was  his  seven-year-old  brother.     Then, 

35 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

when  we  were  alone,  he  told  me  why  he  had  come 
to  St.  Louis. 

"You  remember  that  I  wrote  you  how  much 
Charlie  always  liked  your  picture?"  he  asked.  I 
nodded  assent. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"The  little  fellow  died  with  it  in  his  arms," 
came  at  last.  "He  asked  for  it — for  the  pretty 
lady — and  when  I  gave  it  to  him,  he  held  it  tight 
and  we  couldn't  take  it  away  from  him  again. 
And  it  made  me  realize  more  than  ever  just  what 
you  mean — to  me.  I've  come  to  ask  you  for  your 
promise." 

And  I  gave  it.  The  next  spring — March  6, 
1866 — we  were  married  in  the  room  where  we 
had  first  met,  with  a  few  of  the  soldiers  who  had 
served  in  Will's  company,  and  a  small  number 
of  my  friends  present.  Then  to  our  honeymoon 
— a  boat  trip  up  the  Missouri  River  to  Leaven- 
worth,  where  we  were  to  remain  for  a  time  at  the 
home  of  Will's  sister,  Mrs.  Eliza  Meyers. 

And  with  our  arrival  on  the  boat,  the  old  spirit 
of  fun  became  uppermost  in  Will's  mind  again. 

"Haven't  I  seen  that  pilot  before?"  he  asked 
me,  pointing  to  the  little  deck-house. 

36 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Yes,"  I  told  him,  "y°u  met  him  at  our  house 
the  first  week  I  knew  you." 

"I  thought  so."  Then  a  grin  came  across  his 
features.  "Listen,  you  go  around  this  side  of  the 
boat  and  I'll  go  around  the  other.  He  doesn't 
know  we're  married,  does  he?" 

"Why,  of  course  not.    How  should  he?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  He  boomed  it  forth  with 
such  strength  that  I  was  afraid  the  entire  boat 
would  hear.  "I  just  feel  like  the  whole  world 
ought  to  know  I'm  married.  But  we'll  keep  it 
secret  long  enough  to  have  some  fun.  Hurry  up 
around  the  side  of  the  boat." 

"And  then  what?" 

"We'll  meet  just  where  he  can  see  us  and  begin 
to  flirt  with  each  other  and  just  see  what  he  does." 

"Oh,  Will— but  all  right." 

And  around  the  boat  I  went,  to  meet  him,  pass 
him,  drop  my  handkerchief  and  begin  a  flirtation 
of  the  most  violent  order.  Nor  was  it  long  until 
the  pilot  was  out  of  his  little  house,  leaving  the 
wheel  in  an  assistant's  hands  until  he  could  come 
downstairs  and  draw  me  to  one  side. 

"Do  you  think  that's  quite  the  thing  to  do,  Miss 
Frederici?"  he  asked  in  a  fatherly  tone. 

"Oh,  I  believe  you've  made  a  mistake,"  came 
37 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

my  cool  answer.  "I'm  not  Miss  Frederici.  I'm 
Mrs.  William  Frederick  Cody,  and  the  gentle- 
man to  whom  you're  referring  is  my  husband  1" 

All  of  which  was  the  beginning  of  festivities. 
Every  boat  in  those  days  carried  its  musicians. 
Often  they  were  the  negroes  who  performed  the 
heavy  labor  when  the  ship  stopped  at  its  landings. 
Nevertheless,  with  their  banjos,  and  some  one  to 
thrum  upon  the  piano,  they  could  make  good 
music,  with  the  result  that  the  pilot  soon  had  ar- 
ranged for  the  orchestra,  had  gathered  all  the  pas- 
sengers of  the  boat  in  the  main  cabin  and  Will 
and  myself  were  ushered  in  and  introduced.  Then 
began  the  frolic,  with  a  grand  promenade  to  the 
Wedding  March,  Will  and  I  leading  the  proces- 
sion. 

A  voyage  up  the  river  in  those  days  was  not  a 
swift  affair.  The  old  river  steamer  plodded  along 
against  the  swift  current  of  the  muddy  Missouri, 
stopping  here  and  there  to  take  on  wood,  or  to 
unload  some  of  its  freight  that  it  had  brought 
from  St.  Louis.  It  was  all  very  new  to  me.  I,  of 
course,  had  seen  the  steamers  at  the  levee  in  St. 
Louis,  and  had  taken  short  excursion  trips  on 
them — but  nothing  like  this. 

It  was  like  what  I  often  have  imagined  an  ex- 
38 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

plorer's  trip  on  some  unnavigated  river  to  be. 
For  hours  and  hours  we  made  our  way  up  the 
river,  around  sand  bars,  through  narrows  and 
muddy,  swirling  whirlpools,  with  never  the  sight 
of  a  house  for  almost  a  day  at  a  time,  only  the 
ragged  banks  and  the  bluffs  and  scraggly  trees 
of  the  unleaved  woods  beyond.  Now  and  then, 
of  course,  we  would  reach  some  town,  like  the 
old  village  of  Boonville,  or  Jefferson  City, 
perched  high  on  the  bluffs.  But  as  a  rule  the  day 
was  spent  only  in  a  succession  of  wildernesses. 

It  all  began  to  have  its  effect  on  me.  Now  I 
began  to  realize  that  I  had  said  good-by  to  civili- 
zation, that  the  old  comforts  and  safety  of  St. 
Louis  might  be  a  thing  of  the  past  forever.  I 
knew  now  that  I  was  going  into  this  vague  thing 
called  the  West,  this  place  where  roamed  the 
antelope,  the  deer  and  the  buffalo,  where  Indians 
still  regarded  the  white  man  as  an  interloper,  and 
where  death  traveled  swift  and  sure.  In  spite 
of  the  gayety  of  the  boat — for  that  evening  dance 
had  become  a  regular  thing  now — the  thought 
clung  to  me  and  harassed  me.  And  then  came  the 
climax. 

We  were  nearing  the  end  of  our  journey  and 
had  stopped  at  a  small,  wild-appearing  landing. 

39 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Some  of  the  negro  boys  had  lowered  the  gang- 
plank and  were  loading  wood  from  a  pile  on  the 
bank,  while  the  remainder  still  twanged  at  their 
guitars  in  the  cabin.  Will  and  I  had  gone  on 
deck  to  watch  the  loading  and  to  listen  to  the 
negroes  sing,  for  never  was  there  a  duty  to  be 
performed  without  its  accompanying  chants  by 
the  hurrying  roustabouts,  working  in  tune  to 
their  weird,  high-pitched  songs. 

Suddenly,  we  noticed  a  confusion  on  the  bank, 
as  of  some  one  struggling.  It  was  night,  and  the 
lamps  of  the  boat  threw  only  a  faint  glow  upon 
the  shore,  the  rest  of  the  illumination  being  sup- 
plied by  the  swinging  lanterns  hanging  from  just 
above  the  gangplank,  throwing  us  in  the  light  as 
much  as  the  shore  itself.  We  heard  cries,  then 
shouting. 

Will  rushed  forward  to  the  rail,  calling  back  to 
me  that  it  evidently  was  a  quarrel  between  some 
of  the  settlers  and  the  roustabouts.  A  shot 
crackled,  and  I  felt  my  knees  become  weak  be- 
neath me.  Then  again  sounded  a  shot,  followed 
by  the  cry  of  some  one  in  pain,  and  I  fainted. 

When  I  recovered,  Will  was  holding  me  in  his 
arms,  kissing  me,  and  calling  to  me.  The  trouble 
below  had  been  quieted ;  faintly  I  could  hear  the 

40 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

creaking  and  scraping  of  the  gangplank  as  it  was 
shoved  aboard  again.  The  steamer's  whistle 
tooted  hoarsely,  the  paddles  began  to  churn,  while 
I  clung  to  Will  and  trembled.  Then  as  the  old 
boat  plowed  its  way  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  I  gained  more  courage  and  tried  to  laugh 
away  my  fears. 

A  part  of  the  returning  courage,  I  must  admit, 
came  through  the  fact  that  the  moon,  which  had 
been  hidden  by  threatening  clouds,  came  forth 
about  that  time,  lighting  up  the  muddy,  swirling 
waters  of  the  river,  and  changing  their  dirtiness 
to  a  silver  sheen.  The  ragged  banks,  softened  by 
the  shadows,  took  on  a  more  inviting  aspect.  But 
I'm  afraid  that  even  my  show  of  courage  was  not 
sufficient  to  persuade  Will  that  he  had  not  made 
a  terrible  mistake  in  taking  such  a  little  tender- 
foot for  a  wife. 

Together  we  walked  to  the  end  of  the  deck,  and 
stood  there,  watching  the  spray  as  it  flew  from 
the  paddles  in  the  moonlight.  At  last  Will's  arm 
went  about  my  waist  and  he  drew  me  to  him. 

"I'm  sorry,  Lou,"  he  said  slowly. 

"For  what?"  I  countered.  "That  I  got  fright- 
ened? I  am  too,  Will.  I — I  tried  not  to  be.  But 
maybe  it  was  just  my  nerves,  and " 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Will  was  looking  far  out  into  the  river,  to 
where  an  old  tree  was  floating  down  with  the  cur- 
rent. I'll  never  forget  that  old  black  carcass  of 
the  forest.  I  watched  it,  too,  watched  it  with  the 
realization  that  it  was  floating  downstream,  back 
toward  St.  Louis,  back  toward  home,  where  there 
were  lights  on  the  street  corners  and  policemen 
and  horse  cars  and  safety.  For  a  long  time  both 
of  us  were  silent,  then  Will's  arm  gripped  me  a 
bit  tighter. 

"Lou,"  he  said,  "I'm  taking  you  into  a  new 
country,  a  strange  country.  I  never  thought 
about  it  much  until — that  trouble  back  there." 

"Neither  did  I,  Will." 

"You  won't  have  many  conveniences  out  here." 

"I  know  it." 

"It  won't  be  like  it  was  back  in  St.  Louis. 
There  won't  be  many  good  women  that  you  can 
associate  with.  There  won't  be  many  nice  men. 
Everybody's  pretty  rough  out  here." 

"So  you've  told  me,  Will." 

"You're  going  to  meet  gamblers,  and  ruffians 
who  have  killed  their  man  and  who  have  mighty 
little  in  the  world  to  recommend  them  except  that 
they  are  helping  to  populate  this  country  out 
here,"  he  went  on.  "Maybe  you  won't  under- 

42 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

stand  it  all  at  first — you  may  never  understand 
it.  You're  going  to  be  forced  to  live  without  a 
lot  of  the  things  that  you  have  always  had,  and 
there  may  be  times  when  there'll  be  dangers,  Lou. 
That's  why  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  it  now." 

I  was  silent  a  moment,  then  I  caught  his  hand 
in  mine  and  pressed  it  tight. 

"What  was  it  you  wanted  to  ask  me,  Will?" 

"Whether "   and  he  hesitated— "whether 

you  think  you're  going  to  be  able  to  stand  it." 

He  was  looking  down  at  me,  and  my  eyes  went 
up  to  meet  his. 

"I  knew  about  these  things  before  I  married 
you,  Will." 

"That's  true.  But  you  were  in  St.  Louis  then 
— and  all  you  know  about  life  out  here  was  what 
you  had  heard.  You've  just  seen  an  example  of 
what  it's  liable  to  be.  Not  that  I  won't  protect 
you,"  he  added  hastily,  "because  I  will.  I'll  shield 
you  all  I  can  and  I'll  work  hard  for  you  and  I'll 
try  to  be  the  husband  that  I  should  be  to  you — 
but  this  life  out  here  is  different  from  what  it  is 
in  the  cities.  And — and — I  thought  that  if  you 
were  afraid " 

"What?" 

43 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

He  hesitated  a  long  time.  It  seemed  like  hours 
to  me.  Then : 

"If  you  think  you're  not  going  to  be  able  to 
stand  my  life,  I'll  try  to  stand  yours.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  could  do  it  or  not — but  I'd  try 
my  best.  Out  here's  my  world.  I'm  at  home  out 
here — I  can  breathe  and  live.  I  love  it — but  I 
love  you  too.  And  I  love  you  enough,  Lou,  so 
that  if  you  tell  me  that  you  don't  want  to  go,  if 
you  don't  want  to  take  the  risk,  we'll  go  back." 

If  ever  there  came  a  test  to  me,  it  came  then. 
I  was  homesick,  I  was  frightened,  I  was  going 
into  a  strange  land.  From  a  convent  I  was  bound 
for  a  country  where  men  often  killed  for  the  love 
of  killing,  where  saloons  and  fights  were  common, 
where  the  life  was  coarse  and  rough  and  crude. 
I  was  going  into  a  country  where  I  would  know 
nothing  of  the  customs,  nothing  of  the  manner- 
isms, nothing  of  the  best  way  in  which  to  live  my 
life  and  be  free  from  the  constant  harrying  of  the 
environment  into  which  I  would  be  thrown.  The 
tears  came  to  my  eyes.  I  wanted  to  cry  to  him 
that  home  was  calling,  that  I  cringed  at  the 
thought  of  what  was  before  me.  But  instead,  the 
heart  of  me  gave  an  answer  that  I  never  re- 
gretted: 

44 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Will,  do  you  remember  what  the  minister  said 
when  we  were  married?" 

"Yes,"  he  burst  forth  with  a  sudden  laugh,  "he 
waited  a  minute  and  then  said:  'Give  me  the 
ring!'  And  my  fingers  were  all  thumbs  and  I 
thought  I  never  was  going  to  get  it  out  of  my 
pocket." 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  what  he  said 
about  us  being  together  always." 

"Yes,  I  remember."  And  his  voice  was  soft. 
"He  said  'till  death  do  us  part/  " 

"Well,  that's  what  I  say  to  you  now.  You've 
asked  me  whether  I'll  go  out  there  with  you  and 
stand  the  hardships  that  I  may  have  to  face,  and 
I  tell  you  that  we  have  promised  to  remain  to- 
gether until  death  do  us  part.  I'll  try  not  to  be 
afraid  again,  Will." 

"And  I'll  try  to  shield  you." 

And  so  we  faced  the  new  life  together,  stand- 
ing there  on  the  deck  of  the  old  river  steamer, 
watching  the  spray  as  it  flashed  from  the  paddle- 
wheels,  Will  making  his  pledge  to  watch  after  me 
in  this  new,  crude  world  we  were  entering,  I  giv- 
ing my  word  that  I  would  endure  and  abide  by 
the  laws  of  No  Man's  Land.  And  as  we  talked 

45 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

of  it,  Will  gave  me  a  new  insight  into  his  nature, 
a  straighter,  clearer  view  of  his  heart. 

"And  it  isn't  all  that  this  life  out  here  is  free," 
he  said,  "there's  something  more.  The  world  isn't 
big  enough  for  everybody  that's  in  it.  It's  got  to 
spread — and  they'll  want  to  come  out  here. 
Every  day  you  can  see  the  wagon  trains  starting 
across  the  desert.  They're  building  the  railroad 
through  Kansas.  They  need  men — who  are 
rough  and  ready  and  who  can  fight  their  way 
forward  and  clear  the  path. 

"I  know  the  West,  Lou.  I  know  every  foot  of 
it.  And  I've  got  to  do  my  part.  It  isn't  a  very 
pretty  place  now,  but  there'll  be  towns  some  day 
out  here  almost  as  big  as  St.  Louis,  and  I've  got 
to  help  make  the  road  clear  for  them.  I'm  work- 
ing for  to-morrow,  Lou — and  I  want  you  to  help 


me." 


And  again  I  gave  my  promise,  while  the  old 
steamer  plowed  on,  up  the  muddy  Missouri  to- 
ward Fort  Leavenworth.  And  there,  when  the 
gangplank  lowered,  I  found  that  Will  had  made 
his  first  step  in  trying  to  make  my  entrance  to 
the  West  as  easy  as  possible. 

He  had  telegraphed  ahead — the  telegraph  ran 
then  as  far  as  the  Kansas  Pacific  had  built — to 

46 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

his  sister,  to  summon  as  many  of  the  officers  and 
friends  of  the  post  to  the  landing  to  meet  us. 
And  they  were  waiting,  with  carriages  and  flow- 
ers and  greetings  and  happiness. 

Instead  of  the  Indians  I  had  expected,  were 
cultured  men  and  cultured  women,  persons  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  forget  had  ever  existed.  So 
strong  had  the  thought  of  the  lawlessness  of  the 
West  fastened  upon  me  that  it  had  not  entered 
my  mind  that  there  were  others,  just  like  myself, 
who  were  making  the  fight  for  civilization,  that 
there  were  men  and  women,  too,  whose  sole 
thought  in  life  did  not  concern  itself  with  gam- 
bling brawls  and  dance  halls.  I  was  almost 
hysterical  with  happiness  when  I  went  down  that 
gangplank  and  ran  forward  to  the  arms  of  Will's 
sister,  then  turned  to  receive  the  introductions  of 
the  others  who  had  gathered  to  greet  me.  And 
as  Will  and  myself  were  bustled  into  a  carriage, 
that  old  twinkle  was  again  in  his  eyes  and  he 
squeezed  my  hand. 

"It  isn't  so  terribly  bad— yet,  is  it?" 

And  I  agreed  that  it  wasn't. 

In  fact,  it  was  all  very  wonderful.  Leaven- 
worth  was  glad  to  receive  some  one  new — almost 
as  glad  as  I  to  know  that  Leavenworth  did  not 

47 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

consist  wholly  of  stockades  and  hurrying  soldiers 
rushing  out  to  meet  Indian  attacks.  There  were 
dances  and  parties  and  carriage  rides  and— 

"Will,"  I  said  one  night  as  I  smoothed  out  the 
flounces  of  my  "best  dress."  "What's  wrong  with 
you?" 

He  looked  at  me  quickly. 

"Nothing— why?" 

"Yes,  there  is,"  I  answered.  "And  I  want  to 
know  what  it  is." 

He  walked  around  the  room  a  moment  with  his 
hands  jammed  deep  in  his  pockets. 

"I'll  tell  you  after  the  dance  to-night,"  came 
at  last. 

And  so,  when  the  dance  was  over  and  we  were 
home  again  in  Eliza's  house,  I  asked  the  question 
once  more.  Will's  look  of  worriment  faded  for 
a  moment. 

"Lou,"  he  questioned,  with  that  old  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  "are  you  glad  you  married  me?" 

"Why,  of  course." 

"And  did  you  like  that  hack  we  rode  in  down 
to  the  boat?" 

"Yes,  Will.    But  what's " 

"Did  you  have  an  interesting  time  coming 
here?" 

48 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Certainly.  But  why  are  you  asking  all  those 
questions?" 

"Well."  Then  he  smiled  and  walked  around 
the  room  again.  When  he  came  back  again,  he 
stopped  and  looked  straight  into  my  eyes.  "Well, 
because " 

Then  he  turned  his  pockets  inside  out.  They 
were  empty. 

"Broke,"  he  said  quietly. 

I  stared. 

"And  we  haven't  any  money?" 

"Just  enough  for  me  to  get  out  and  get  a  job 
on — and  for  you  to  live  until  I  can  send  you  back 
some,"  he  answered.  "I've  rented  the  old  hotel 
down  at  Salt  Creek  Valley  from  Dr.  Crook  and 
you'll  stay  there.  I'm — I'm  going  to  get  a  job 
pushing  a  wheelbarrow." 

"Where?    At  the  hotel?" 

"No.  On  the  Kansas  Pacific.  They're  look- 
ing for  men  now  and  I've  got  a  family  to  sup- 
port. But "  and  he  came  forward  quickly 

and  kissed  me — "I  won't  be  pushing  a  wheelbar- 
row long.  There's  always  something  happening 
out  here  in  the  West." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  next  day  we  said  our  good-bys  and  he 
started  out  for  Saline,  Kansas,  then  the  end  of 
the  Kansas  Pacific,  where  the  road  was  being 
built  on  toward  Denver.  Long  days  intervened, 
and  at  last  came  a  letter  from  him,  saying  that 
he  had  stopped  at  Junction  City,  where  he  had 
met  his  old  friend  "Wild  Bill"  Hickok,  who  was 
scouting  for  the  government,  with  headquarters 
at  Fort  Ellsworth,  and  that  he  did  not  think  he 
would  stay  long  at  the  construction  job,  inasmuch 
as  the  government  needed  scouts,  and  that  "Wild 
Bill"  felt  sure  that  he  could  obtain  employment. 

The  next  letter  I  received  told  me  that  he  and 
"Wild  Bill"  had  visited  Fort  Ellsworth  and  that 
my  husband  had  obtained  his  position.  So 
throughout  that  winter,  I  received  letters  now 
and  then,  telling  me  how  he  had  guided  Gen- 
eral Custer  from  Fort  Hays  to  Fort  Lamed 
straight  across  a  country  that  was  without  trails 
and  that  the  General  had  told  him  that  if  he  ever 
was  out  of  employment  to  come  to  him. 

50 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"I  think  that  was  very  nice  of  the  General,"  he 
wrote,  "and  I  thanked  him,  telling  him  that  I  was 
a  married  man  now  and  that  I  always  would  need 
a  job  to  provide  for  my  family." 

Then  later  came  the  news  that  Will  had  guided 
the  Tenth  Regiment  in  a  terrific  Indian  fight  near 
Fort  Hays,  in  which  a  number  of  the  soldiers,  as 
well  as  Major  Arms,  were  wounded  and  a  retreat 
was  made  in  the  face  of  superior  numbers  of  In- 
dians only  with  the  aid  of  darkness. 

All  of  which  was  not  the  happiest  news  in  the 
world  for  a  new  bride.  Nor  did  the  fact  that 
cholera  had  broken  out  at  Fort  Hays,  where  my 
husband  often  was  forced  to  visit,  relieve  the 
situation.  More  times  than  once  in  that  first  year 
was  I  forced  to  grit  my  teeth  and  fight  back  the 
discouragement  that  almost  overwhelmed  me. 
Then  came  a  new  viewpoint  to  life — in  the  per- 
son of  our  baby. 

It  was  December  16,  1866,  when  she  was  born. 
Away  out  on  the  plains  somewhere  was  her 
father,  undergoing  hardships,  I  knew ;  dangers  of 
which  I  could  only  dream.  But  I  was  sure  of  one 
thing — that  if  Will  was  alive,  if  it  were  possible 
to  reach  him,  he  would  come  to  me.  I  sent  the 

51 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

word,  by  telegraph  as  far  as  the  wires  would 
carry  it,  by  pony  the  rest  of  the  way. 

Days  passed.  Then  came  the  sound  of  hurry- 
ing feet,  the  booming  of  a  big  voice  and  I  was  in 
my  husband's  arms.  His  eyes  were  glistening. 

"Boy  or  girl?"  he  bellowed  with  that  big  voice 
of  his. 

"A  girl,  Will,"  I  answered. 

"What  are  we  going  to  name  it?"  He  had 
taken  the  covering  from  the  baby's  face  and  was 
jabbing  a  tremendous  finger  toward  her  eyes, 
causing  me  to  believe  every  moment  that  he  would 
make  a  slip  and  ruin  her  features  forever. 
"What'll  we  name  her?" 

"Why,  haven't  you  thought  of  a  name?"  I 
asked. 

"Me?"  he  stared  wide-eyed.  "Gosh,  I'm  lost 
there.  The  only  thing  I  ever  named  was  a  horse 
and  none  of  those  names'd  do,  would  they?" 

"Hardly.  I've  rather  thought  of  the  name  of 
Arta." 

"Pretty  name.  5Lo,  Arta!"  he  roared — when 
Will  became  excited  his  voice  was  like  a  foghorn. 
Naturally,  with  this  great  being  bending  over  her, 
shouting  in  his  happiness,  the  baby  began  to  cry. 
Will's  face  became  as  long  as  a  coffin. 

52 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Kind  of  looks  like  she  ain't  pleased,"  came  his 
simple  statement,  and  I  couldn't  help  laughing  at 
the  lugubriousness  of  his  expression. 

"My  goodness,  neither  would  you  like  it  if  you 
had  some  one  shouting  in  your  ear.  Now,  don't 
poke  your  finger  in  her.  eye!  Don't  you  know 
how  to  act  around  a  baby?" 

"Never  got  close  enough  before  to  take  any  les- 
sons," he  confessed,  "How  do  you  lift  her  up, 
anyway?" 

And  thus  began  a  new  lesson  for  my  scout.  He 
could  ride  anything  made  of  horseflesh,  he  could 
tear  a  hole  in  a  dollar  flipped  into  the  air  and  then 
hit  it  again  with  a  rifle  bullet  before  it  touched  the 
ground;  he  was  at  home  in  the  midst  of  danger, 
and  there  had  never  been  an  Indian  who  could 
best  him  in  a  fight,  but  when  it  came  to  babies,  I 
was  the  master. 

He  was  a  willing  student,  but  it  was  a  hard 
lesson.  More  than  once  he  turned  to  me,  in  utter 
discouragement. 

"Crickets!"  he  would  say,  "but  they're  sure 
bundly,  aren't  they?  I'm  always  afraid  of 
squashing  her." 

"You  ought  to  be,  the  way  you're  carrying 
her,"  I'd  reply — when  I  wasn't  laughing  at  his 

53 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

great-hearted,  clumsy  efforts  to  amuse  the  tiny 
little  thing;  "if  you're  so  tired  why  don't  you  give 
her  to  me." 

"Uh-huh.  No.  I'm  all  right.  We're  getting 
along  fine." 

Then,  when  the  baby  would  begin  to  cry,  he 
would  boom  forth  with  that  thunderous  voice, 
singing  the  only  lullabies  he  knew,  something 
along  the  order  of: 

Shoo    fly,    don't   bother  me, 
Shoo   fly,  don't  bother   me 

Whereat,  at  the  resumption  of  new  wails,  he 
would  mournfully  hand  her  over  to  me,  and  then 
sit  watching,  like  a  boy  with  a  new  knife  that  he 
has  been  forbidden  to  touch. 

But  the  West  called  again,  and  he  went  away, 
not,  however,  before  his  education  in  the  care  and 
culture  of  infants  had  been  somewhat  bettered. 
And  when  next  I  saw  him 

It  was  months  later  that  a  wildly  enthusiastic 
man  entered  the  door.  I  stared  for  a  second. 

"Of  all  things,  Will  Cody,  what's  happened?" 

"I've  become  a  millionaire!"  he  shouted  as  he 
came  forward  to  kiss  me,  and  then  turned  to  the 
baby.  "Become  a  millionaire,  that's  what  I've 

54 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

done !  What's  more,  we're  going  away  from  here. 
We  own  a  town,  now.  Rome,  Kansas.  I'm  a 
half  founder  of  it." 

"But " 

"Guess  I'd  better  start  at  the  beginning,"  Will 
said  exuberantly.  "I  was  scouting  around  at  the 
end  of  the  Kansas  Pacific  out  by  Big  Creek  when 
I  met  a  fellow  named  Bill  Rose,  a  contractor. 
Well,  we  got  to  talking  about  towns  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  I  kind  of  suggested  to  him  that 
it  would  be  a  pretty  nice  thing  if  he  and  I  could 
get  up  a  little  town  of  our  own.  He  thought  the 
same  way  about  it,  so  we  put  our  money  together 
and  bought  up  some  land  out  there  for  about  a 
dollar  an  acre,  and  then  we  put  the  beginning  of 
a  town  on  it." 

"What's  the  beginning  of  a  town?" 

"Saloon  and  a  grocery  store,"  Will  laughed. 
"You  can't  have  a  town  without  'em.  Where  they 
are,  the  town  will  follow.  And  do  you  know  that 
right  now,"  he  slapped  a  knee  with  one  hand, 
"we've  got  the  finest  little  town  that  there  is  in 
the  West?  A  hundred  houses  on  it  right  this 
minute,  and  with  us  owning  all  land,  when  things 
get  settled  down  a  bit  and  we  can  get  started 
charging  rents  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  we'll 

55 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

have  money  rolling  in  hand  over  fist!  Yes,  sir! 
And  what's  more,  we  wouldn't  let  that  skinflint 
of  a  railroad  man  come  in  on  it  either." 

"Who  was  that?"  His  information,  in  its  en- 
thusiasm, was  rather  coming  in  bunches.  Will 
waved  a  hand. 

"Why — a  railroad  man.  Said  he  was  with  the 
Kansas  Pacific,  and  told  us  that  inasmuch  as  the 
railroad  was  building  its  line  out  there  that  it 
ought  to  have  half  the  town.  Know  what  we 
said?  We  told  him  that  we  were  fixing  things 
for  the  railroad  company  and  doing  it  good  and 
that  it  ought  to  be  darned  grateful  that  we'd 
gone  and  built  up  a  fine  town  for  it  to  come  to. 
But  some  way  or  other,  he  didn't  seem  to  take 
to  it  very  much.  But  Bill  Rose  and  I  weren't 
going  to  give  him  half  our  town.  No  sirree!" 

"I  wouldn't  either,"  I  agreed.  "What  right 
has  the  railroad  company  to  ask  you  for  half  your 
town?" 

"None  at  all.  That's  just  what  I  told  him. 
You  betcha  we  sent  him  hustling  away  all  right. 
Guess  you'd  better  start  getting  packed  up.  Cer- 
tainly a  fine  town  out  there.  Bill  and  I  thought  a 
long  time  over  the  name.  We  finally  decided  on 
Rome,  because  Rome's  lasted  for  a  long  time  and 

56 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

we  want  our  town  to  be  remembered  in  history 
too." 

"It's  a  beautiful  name,"  I  agreed  enthusiastic- 
ally. "When  do  we  start  out  there?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  we  can  get  a  few  things  packed 
up.  Better  not  take  too  much  out  there  at  first." 

So  the  packing  began  and  then  Will,  the  baby 
and  myself,  started  to  make  our  first  journey  into 
the  real  West.  At  Saline,  we  left  the  Kansas 
Pacific,  and  I  sighted  long  lines  of  great,  cumber- 
some wagons,  which  waited  by  the  side  of  the 
track.  Will  pointed. 

"That's  ours — the  third  one.  Come  on,  I'll 
help  you  into  it." 

We  made  our  way  forward  to  the  wagon,  a 
tremendous  thing,  trussed  and  beamed,  with  a 
slope-shouldered,  long-must  ached  man  lounging 
on  the  front  seat,  the  reins  to  twelve  teams  of 
mules  hanging  listlessly  in  his  hands,  his  jaws 
churning  with  a  tremendous  cud  of  tobacco.  One 
by  one,  Will  boosted  first  me,  then  the  baby,  into 
the  wagon  and  turned. 

"Bill  Rose  is  around  here  somewhere — waiting 
for  us.  Got  his  wife  with  him,"  he  said  as  he 
started  away,  "I'll  hunt  him  up." 

I  watched  after  him  timidly,  then  looked  again 
57 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

in  the  direction  of  the  front  seat.  The  black- 
mustached  driver  was  still  slumped  forward, 
studying  his  mules,  apparently  thinking  of  noth- 
ing else  in  life.  I  looked  out  to  see  where  Will 
had  gone  and  watched  in  the  direction  in  which 
he  had  departed. 

Presently  I  felt  something  touch  my  shoulder, 
something  gliding  and  creeping.  Quickly  I 
glanced,  then  screamed  at  the  sight  of  a  black, 
snake-like  something  that  was  gliding  toward  the 
baby.  Then  I  turned,  and  there  came  a  chuck- 
ling, rumbling  laugh,  as  the  driver  drew  back 
his  bull-whip  and  haw-hawed  at  me. 

"'Taint  only  me,  Lady,"  he  apologized.  "Jest 
wanted  t'  tickle  th'  bebbe.  Don't  see  many  on 
them  out  here." 

I  smiled,  still  quivering  with  fright,  then 
brightened  at  the  approach  of  my  husband  and 
his  companions,  William  Rose  and  his  wife. 

They  climbed  into  the  heavy  wagon,  the  driver 
cracked  the  whip  that  had  frightened  me  so  much, 
and,  rumbling  and  bumping,  the  start  was  made. 
For  safety's  sake,  the  wagons  traveled  in  num- 
bers, rarely  less  than  a  dozen,  each  with  its  long 
string  of  mules  before  it,  its  drivers  shouting  and 
swearing,  its  yelling  riders,  its  whips  popping  like 

58 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

rifle  shots.  "J.  Murphy"  wagons  was  their  title, 
capable  of  carrying  seven  thousand  pounds  of 
freight  each,  and  with  their  beds  as  large  as  the 
room  of  an  ordinary  house.  Each  was  covered 
with  two  folds  of  heavy  canvas,  upon  bentwood 
hoops,  to  protect  the  cargoes  from  the  rain,  and 
as  I  watched  the  ones  traveling  ahead  of  us  across 
the  prairie,  they  seemed  like  some  great,  wind- 
ing, fantastic  serpent,  whose  vertebrae  had  become 
disjointed  at  intervals,  writhing  across  the  plains 
towards — where  ? 

I  watched  a  long  time,  noticing  in  a  vague  way 
that  every  man  who  rode  past  the  wagon  was 
armed  with  a  heavy  revolver  on  each  side  of  his 
belt  and  a  rifle  slung  across  his  saddle.  Far  away, 
out  at  each  side  of  the  train,  other  men  were  rid- 
ing, sometimes  slowly  and  sometimes  swiftly,  and 
they  too  were  armed.  For  a  long  time  I  did  not 
realize  the  import  of  it  all.  Then  it  struck  me 
— we  were  in  the  Indian  country,  and  those  out- 
riders were  there  for  a  purpose,  to  keep  their 
keen  eyes  ever  on  the  outlook  for  the  approach 
of  Indians,  and  to  fire  the  shot  that  would  send 
the  long  wagon  train  into  a  hastily  constructed 
circle  of  defense.  I  turned  to  Will. 

"How  would  we  know  if  there  were  Indians 
59 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

around?"  I  asked  as  calmly  as  I  could.  Will  rose 
and  pointed. 

"Easily  enough.  See  those  spots  over  on  the 
hills  about  a  mile  away?" 

"Yes." 

"They're  cattle— or  buffalo." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  they  either  stay  in  one  position,  or 
move  slowly  around.  An  Indian  does  neither. 
He  bounces  up  and  down — you'll  see  him  for  just 
a  second  and  then  he  disappears." 

"Why?" 

"It's  their  method  of  scouting — and  that's  the 
thing  that  gives  them  away.  Never  worry  about 
an  object  you  can  see  right  along.  But  if  you 
notice  something  bobbing  up  and  down,  just 
showing  and  then  dropping  out  of  sight,  you 
holler  and  holler  quick." 

And  with  my  baby  held  tight  to  me,  I  watched 
the  hills,  watched  until  the  last  rays  of  the  sun 
had  faded,  and  the  hills  had  disappeared  in  the 
darkness,  without  a  sight  of  the  thing  I  feared. 

But  the  worst  uncertainty  was  still  to  come. 
The  wagons  had  been  drawn  into  their  circle  for 
the  night,  and  the  camp  fires  were  blazing  in  the 
center,  while  the  drivers  and  others  were  prepar- 

60 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ing  the  evening  meal.  With  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rose, 
Will  got  out  to  stretch  a  bit  and  to  assist  with  the 
work.  I  with  my  baby  remained  in  the  wagon, 
listening  to  the  chaff  of  the  men  and  to  their  con- 
versation. Two  came  nearby. 

"How  does  it  look?"  I  heard  one  of  them  ask. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  came  the  voice  of  the  other. 
"We're  pretty  well  protected — as  well  as  pos- 
sible, anyway.  We've  posted  sentries  every- 
where." 

"Well,"  the  first  driver  took  a  hitch  at  his 
trousers,  "I'll  be  glad  when  we're  out  of  here, 
just  the  same.  I  never  did  like  this  Three  Wells, 
even  before  the  massacre." 

Three  Wells!  The  name  told  its  own  story. 
It  had  only  been  a  matter  of  months  since  the 
Indians  had  swooped  down  upon  an  emigrant 
train  here,  killed  the  drivers  and  the  passengers, 
burned  the  wagons  and  driven  off  with  the  stock. 
Three  Wells — I  remembered  how  I  had  cringed 
at  the  horrors  of  the  killings  when  I  had  read 
about  them — even  then  a  week  old — in  the  news- 
paper at  Fort  Leavenworth.  I  had  cringed  then 
and  been  fearful.  Now  I  was  to  spend  the  night 
on  the  very  spot  where  that  massacre  had  taken 
place. 

61 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

By  and  by  the  dinner  was  cooked  and  Will 
brought  me  forth,  pale  and  trembling  from  the 
wagon.  He  looked  at  me  queerly  in  the  fire- 
light. 

" Aren't  you  feeling  well?"  he  asked. 

"Fine,"  I  answered,  summoning  a  wan  smile; 
"just — just  a  little  tired,  that's  all." 

"Hey — "  he  turned  and  called  to  one  of  the 
wagon-men — "fetch  my  wife  a  little  coffee,  will 
you  ?  She  looks  a  bit  weak." 

But  when  the  coffee  came,  I  could  not  drink 
it.  My  mind  was  on  only  one  thing,  that  some- 
where, out  there  in  the  darkness,  were  the  sunken 
spots  of  what  once  had  been  mounds  of  earth, 
where  slept  the  victims  of  that  massacre.  The 
Indians  had  come  in  the  darkness  that  night, 
silently  crept  forward  until  they  had  surrounded 
the  train,  then,  with  a  sudden  rush,  killed  the 
outposts  and  broken  their  way  through  to  the 
inner  defenses  even  before  the  men  could  reach 
their  guns.  And  why  should  not  to-night  offer  a 
chance  for  a  repetition  of  it  all? 

The  fact  that  many  and  many  a  wagon  train 
had  passed  this  spot  since  the  massacre  occurred 
and  done  so  safely,  did  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
allay  my  fear.  My  food  cooled  on  the  plate  be- 

62 


MKMOUIKS  OF  MJJ-FAJ/)  B1U. 

fore:  me,  whiJr  my  wond'-ririj/  Jjir,h;md  -.ought 
to  leam  the  eau.se  of  my  iridi.HpoHition.  Hut  J 
would  not  tell  him*  Back  there,  in  our  honey- 
moon days,  I  had  promised  that  I  would  be  brave, 

th;if  I  would  ;j.rrr -pt.  fjj  ,  jjf'f  ;i.nd  go  where  he  went, 
and  MOW  th;it,  Ujf  t.jmr-  for  rnr-  t,o  p/ov    my  prorrj 
ise  had  come,  J  did  riot  intend  to  weaken.    And 
no  I  smiled— milled  in  spite  of  my  dry  throat, 
my  fevered,  parched  lips,  my  anxiou.s  eyen  that 

•/.•;jtrfjrrj  <•.<:;/  fjj;i.rjr>w,  rny    jangling,  r;i.v/  TJ'  r  v ••. 

that  seemed  to  leap  Mid  jerk  at  the  slightest 
mad 

And  that  wa.s  only  the  betfirmiritf.  I  fours  fol- 
lowed, hours  in  which  men  slept  and  mules 
brayed,  hours  in  which  I  remained  awake,  watch- 
ing, watching,  my  baby  held  close  to  me,  watch- 
iritf  and  praying  for  dawn. 

At  last  the  light  dragged  its  way  across  the 
sky.  The  teams  were  again  hitched  to  their 
wagons;  once  more  the  hull-whips  cracked  in  the 
air,  the  drivers  and  riders  swore  and  we  went  on- 
ward Then  and  only  then,  I  dozed — safe  at  last 
from  the  ghostly,  haunting  memories  of  Three 
Wells. 

Throughout  that  day,  Will  and  Mr,  Hose 

talked  incessantly  of  their  town,  how  it   would 

03 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

grow,  how  brick  and  frame  buildings  would  re- 
place the  shacks  and  tents  which  now  stood  there, 
and  how  the  money  would  flow  into  their  pockets 
in  a  never-ending  stream.  Night  came  again, 
with  a  moaning  wind,  and  I  slept  fitfully,  awak- 
ening with  a  start  now  and  then,  to  rise  from  my 
bed  in  the  old  wagon,  to  gasp  at  the  sight  of  the 
sentry,  then  to  bury  my  head  under  the  blankets 
and  reason  myself  into  a  state  approaching  calm- 
ness that  I  might  sleep. 

Again  day,  and  again  evening.  The  wagon 
train  circled,  and  left  us  just  at  the  edge  of  a 
hill.  I  looked  apprehensively  toward  my  hus- 
band. 

"Don't  worry,  Mamma" — he  had  adopted  that 
name  when  the  baby  was  born — "the  town's  right 
over  the  hill.  We're  as  safe  as  bugs  in  a  rug. 
Come  on." 

Up  the  hill  we  started,  toward  our  majestic 
entrance  into  our  town  of  Rome.  We  made  the 
top,  and  the  two  men  dropped  their  arms  aghast. 
The  moon  was  shining,  shining  down  upon  what 
once  had  been  Rome,  with  its  hundred  or  so 
shacks,  and  tents.  But  Rome — Rome,  the  glori- 
ous, had  roamed  away.  Only  the  shack  which 
sheltered  the  saloon  remained,  its  lights  glowing 

64, 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

on  the  scattered  debris  of  where  a  town  once  had 
stood.  Rose  turned  gasping. 

"I — I  wonder  what's  happened,"  he  asked 
haltingly.  Will  rubbed  his  chin. 

"This  is  the  place  all  right,"  he  answered  after 
a  moment  of  gazing  about  him,  "everything's 
here — there's  the  butte  over  there  and — and 
everything.  It's  all  here  but  the  town!" 

And  certainly  the  town  had  disappeared. 
Hurriedly  we  made  our  way  down  the  hill,  Will 
in  the  lead,  carrying  the  baby.  He  ran  to  the 
door  of  the  saloon  and  banged  upon  it,  finally  to 
bring  forth  the  bartender. 

"What's  become  of  the  town?"  he  asked  ex- 
citedly. The  bartender  grinned. 

"Didn't  you  hear  about  it?  It  all  moved  away, 
about  a  week  ago.  The  railroad  started  up  a  bet- 
ter town  over  by  Fort  Hays  and  let  it  out  that 
it  wouldn't  come  anywhere  near  here.  So  every- 
body pulled  up  stakes.  This  is  the  only  place 
that's  left." 

Huddled  in  a  wondering  little  group  outside 
the  circle  of  light,  we  heard  the  news.  For  a 
moment  none  of  us  could  say  anything.  Will 
and  Mr.  Rose  walked  up  and  down  looking  at 
the  bits  of  tenting,  the  scraps  of  tin,  the  scattered 

65 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

papers  which  told  the  story  of  their  town  that 
had  disappeared.  Then  Mr.  Rose  came  back  to 
where  his  wife  and  I  stood  disconsolately  wait- 
ing. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,  I  guess,"  he  said 
at  last,  "and  that's  to  walk  over  to  the  fort." 

I  thought  of  the  Indians. 

"If  Will's  willing— I  guess  we'll  stay  here,"  I 
said;  "maybe  we  can  find  a  tent  or  something." 

Mr.  Rose  went  back  and  talked  to  Will.  Then 
he  and  his  wife  said  good-night  to  us.  Will  gave 
me  the  baby  and  went  into  the  saloon  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  hurried  back  to  me. 

"There  isn't  a  tent  around  here,"  he  told  me, 
"but  the  bartender  says  that  there's  a  cot  in  the 
back  room.  You  can  have  that  and  I'll  sleep  on 
the  floor.  Come  on — the  door's  around  this 
way." 

Together  we  made  our  way  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness, to  halt  suddenly  at  the  sight  of  a  hurrying 
figure.  A  negro's  voice  came  to  us. 

"Hello  dar." 

"Hello  yourself.    Who're  you  looking  for?" 

"Marse  Cody." 

"That's  me.    What's  wrong?" 

The  negro  hurried  forward  and  saluted. 
66 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Major  Arms  done  sent  me  oveh  heah  t'  see 
ef  you  kem,  yit.  He  wants  yo'  at  de  fo't." 

Will  turned  and  looked  at  me. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  he  asked  quietly.  Again  I 
summoned  a  smile. 

"No,  Will,"  I  answered.    "I'm  not  afraid." 

"And  I  can  go  to  the  fort  knowing  that  you'll 
not  be  worried — and  that  you'll  feel  that  you'll 
be  protected  if  anything  happens?" 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  I  answered  again.  He 
brought  something  from  his  pocket. 

"Here  are  the  keys,"  he  said,  "one  to  this  door 
and  one  to  the  door  leading  into  the  saloon.  There 
are  some  bull-whackers  and  gamblers  in  there 
now.  They  may  become  noisy  but  they  won't 
hurt  you.  And  you're  sure  you're  not  afraid?" 

I  had  to  grit  my  teeth  to  summon  the  courage 
to  say  the  words,  but  I  managed  it.  Then  Will 
opened  the  door  for  me,  lit  the  dingy  kerosene 
lamp,  kissed  the  baby  and  myself  and  was  gone. 
I  was  alone — alone  in  the  back  room  of  a  frontier 
saloon. 

For  a  moment,  I  could  only  stand  and  look 
about  me,  staring  at  the  crude  pictures  on  the 
walls,  the  dingy  little  windows,  the  rickety  door. 
Then  I  gained  enough  courage  to  creep  to  the 

67 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

door  leading  to  the  saloon  and  assure  myself  it 
was  locked.  After  that  I  locked  the  door  lead- 
ing to  the  outside,  and,  extinguishing  the  lamp, 
laid  down  on  the  cot,  fully  dressed,  with  my 
baby  hugged  tight  to  me. 

Outside  in  the  saloon,  men  were  talking  and 
cursing.  I  could  tell  by  the  noise  from  the  end 
nearest  me  that  a  gambling  game  of  some  kind 
had  been  established  and  that  the  men  were 
drinking  and  quarreling  as  they  played.  Trem- 
blingly I  heard  them  shouting  invectives  at  each 
other,  and  cringed  at  the  language.  Then  some 
one  asked: 

"How  about  that  woman?  Is  she  still  around 
here?" 

Another  voice,  evidently  that  of  the  bartender, 
answered: 

"Cody's  wife?  No,  they  went  over  to  the  fort. 
A  soldier  was  just  in  here  and  said  that  Major 
Arms  had  sent  him  to  get  Cody  and  that  he'd 
met  them  just  going  in  the  door." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  came  the  first  voice,  "this 
isn't  any  place  for  women.  I  don't  want  'em 
around  here  anyhow!" 

And  if  he  had  only  known  how  little  I  wanted 
to  be  there!  But  he  had  no  chance  of  learning. 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

My  strength  had  gone.  All  I  could  do  was  to  lie 
on  that  rickety  cot  and  hope  for  morning. 

The  noise  soon  began  again  and  the  quarreling 
at  the  gambling  table  grew  louder.  Suddenly  I 
leaped,  straight  in  the  air,  it  seemed.  The  sound 
of  scuffling  had  come  from  the  other  room,  fol- 
lowed by  the  bark  of  a  revolver  shot.  It  had  been 
no  worse  than  I  had  expected.  My  imagination 
told  me  what  was  outside  the  door — the  crumpled 
body  of  a  man,  huddled  on  the  floor,  the  revolver, 
its  smoke  trailing  upward — blood 

Then  the  baby  began  to  cry,  and  I  was  thank- 
ful for  the  cursing  and  yelling  that  was  coming 
from  the  barroom.  Vainly  I  tried  to  still  her. 
She  only  cried  the  louder.  And  with  her  sobs,  I 
dully  realized  that  the  noise  from  the  other  side 
of  the  door  was  lessening.  Plainly  I  heard  some 
one  say: 

"Listen— what's  that?" 

Then  absolute  stillness,  except  for  the  fright- 
ened screams  of  the  child.  It  lasted  for  one  of 
the  longest  moments  of  my  life,  followed  by  a 
muffled  mumbling  that  I  could  not  interpret.  At 
last  I  heard  the  steps  of  men,  as  though  they  were 
on  tiptoe,  and  a  slight  knock  on  the  door.  I  did 
not  answer.  Again  it  came — and  again.  I 

69 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

struggled  to  reply,  but,  for  a  moment,  the  words 
simply  would  not  come.  At  last  I  managed  to 
get  out: 

"Who's  there?" 

"It's  only  us,"  some  one  called,  in  a  voice  that 
was  trying  terribly  hard  to  be  pleasant;  "we 
didn't  know  any  body  was  in  there.  Where's 
Cody?" 

"He's  gone  to  the  fort."  I  said  it  before  I 
thought. 

But  the  answer  reassured  me. 

"We're  plum  sorry  we  made  the  baby  cry.  One 
of  us  got  to  scuffling  around  and  his  shootin'  iron 
went  off.  Ain't  nobody  hurt.  We're  awful 
sorry  we  disturbed  you." 

The  news  that  the  killing  I  had  imagined  had 
not  happened  after  all  brightened  my  life  con- 
siderably. And  I  knew  from  the  tone  outside  the 
door,  that  the  barroom,  tough  and  rough  though 
it  might  be,  was  standing  in  humble  penitence. 

"That's  all  right,"  I  answered.  "The  baby's 
stopped  crying  now." 

There  was  another  moment  of  apparent  con- 
sultation. Then  the  knock  came  again. 

"Mrs.  Cody!" 

"Yes." 

70 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Be  you  dressed?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  reckon  you  could  stand  it  t'  let  us  in? 
We'd  powerful  like  to  see  that  baby  o'  Bill's." 

Somewhat  fearfully  I  rose  and  pawed  about  at 
the  side  of  the  old  kerosene  lamp,  at  last  to  find 
an  old  "eight-day"  match  and  light  it.  Then  I 
opened  the  door. 

About  ten  men  stood  there,  dirty,  unkempt, 
bearded,  their  hats  in  their  hands.  They  looked 
at  me  with  a  sort  of  bobbing  bow  as  I  faced  them, 
then  timorously,  and  even  more  fearfully  than  I 
had  walked,  they  stepped  into  the  room.  One 
by  one  they  involuntarily  lined  up,  somewhat 
after  the  fashion  of  persons  passing  a  bier.  Then 
they  gathered  near  the  cot  where  little  Arta  lay. 

Silently  they  watched  her  a  moment,  their  lips 
grinning  behind  their  heavy,  scraggled  beards. 
Then,  in  a  half  embarrassed  way,  one  of  them 
stuck  out  a  finger.  Arta  reached  for  it,  caught 
it  and  laughed.  The  bearded  one's  face  beamed. 

"Look  at  the  little  -  -!"  he  ex- 

claimed, then,  suddenly  realizing  his  oaths,  pulled 
away  his  finger  and  faded  in  the  protection  of 
the  rest  of  the  group.  The  others  looked  about 
them  with  pained  expressions,  understanding  for 

71 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

once  that  here  was  a  place  where  profanity  was 
not  fashionable.  At  last,  the  bartender,  being 
more  of  a  man  of  society  than  the  others,  wiped 
his  hands  on  his  dirty  apron,  and,  turning  to  me 
with  a  wide  grin,  asked: 

"Pretty  baby,  ain't  it?  What  is  it,  a  him  or 
a  she?" 

"She's  a  girl,"  I  answered  as  quietly  as  I  could. 

"Kind  of  thought  it  was.  Kind  of  looked  like 
it.  Mind  if  we  sort  of  dawdle  around  with  her? 
Babies  ain't  much  of  a  crop  out  here." 

And  so  they  stayed  and  "dawdled" — great, 
powerful  children  in  the  baby  hands  of  the  little 
child  that  lay  on  the  cot.  Then,  one  by  one  they 
turned  and  thanked  me,  the  bartender  again  wip- 
ing his  hands  on  that  greasy  apron. 

"We're  plum  sorry  about  making  her  cry,"  he 
apologized  for  the  fourth  or  fifth  time;  "we 
thoughten  you  and  Cody'd  gone  over  to  the  fort. 
We're  plum  sorry  about  it.  But  you  and  the 
young  'un  trot  on  to  bed  now.  There  ain't  no 
business  to-night  anyway  and  these  fellows  want 
to  go  back  to  the  fort.  I'll  set  up  in  the  bar- 


room." 


'You  goin'  to  shet  down?"  One  of  the  group 

72 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

asked  the  question  as  though  it  were  a  sacrilege. 
The  bartender  wiped  his  hands  again. 

"Yep,"  he  answered  with  an  air  of  cold  finality, 
"I'm  going  to  shet  down." 

They  turned  and  tiptoed  out,  the  bartender 
closing  the  door  behind  him  as  he  apologized  for 
the  last  time.  For  a  moment  or  so,  I  heard  the 
group  loitering  about  the  saloon,  evidently  tak- 
ing their  last  drink  for  the  night.  Then  came 
their  good-bys,  and  the  slamming  of  the  front 
door.  Finally,  only  the  steps  of  the  bartender 
echoed  through  the  place,  and  at  last  the  scraping 
of  a  chair  as  it  was  tilted  against  the  wall.  The 
bartender,  true  to  his  promise,  was  "setting  up," 
and  there  Will  found  him  the  next  morning,  snor- 
ing in  his  chair. 

Will's  news  was  not  the  best  in  the  world.  He 
had  been  out  most  of  the  night  on  a  scouting 
expedition,  and  the  Major  had  informed  him  that 
morning  that  he  would  like,  if  possible,  to  have 
him  accompany  him  on  a  hunt,  as  meat  was  get- 
ting scarce  at  camp  and  some  buffalo  had  been 
sighted  nearby.  Our  home  in  Fort  Hays,  he 
told  me,  must  be  a  tent  for  a  while,  until  we  could 
go  to  the  Perry  Hotel,  every  room  of  which  was 

73 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

at  that  time  occupied.  So  to  our  tent  in  Fort, 
Hays  we  went. 

That  domicile  was  near  the  camp  of  the  sol- 
diers, members  of  a  negro  regiment.  For  sev- 
eral days  Cody  remained  there,  and  then  came  the 
order  for  the  hunt,  while  Major  Arms  designated 
twenty  men  who  were  to  act  as  guards  about  my 
tent  and  protect  me.  But  for  some  reason,  the 
guards  did  not  perform  their  duties. 

It  was  late  one  night  when  I  was  aroused  by 
the  sounds  of  shouting  and  quarreling.  Some 
members  of  the  regiment,  passing  my  tent,  had 
met  another  contingent  with  which  they  had 
quarreled  previously  and  had  decided  to  fight  it 
out. 

Perhaps  the  guards  were  there,  perhaps  they 
did  their  best — all  I  know  is  that  almost  before 
I  realized  it,  my  tent  was  the  center  of  the 
struggle  and  forms  were  all  about  me,  tearing  at 
each  other,  knocking  the  tent  down  about  me,  and 
constantly  placing  me  and  my  baby  in  the  danger 
of  being  trampled  to  death.  I  reached  for  a  re- 
volver that  Will  had  presented  to  me,  which  he 
had  given  me  some  instructions  in  aiming  during 
our  old  courting  days  in  St.  Louis.  Hurriedly  I 
picked  up  the  baby  in  one  arm,  and,  fighting  my 

74. 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

way  clear  of  the  folds  of  the  canvas,  made  my 
way  into  the  open. 

"Get  back  there,"  I  cried.  "I've  got  a  gun  and 
know  how  to  use  it.  Now  get  back!" 

A  soldier  turned  and  struck  at  me,  knocking 
the  gun  from  my  hand.  From  across  the  way,  an 
old  man,  seeing  my  predicament,  ran  to  my  as- 
sistance, only  to  be  knocked  down  and  kicked 
into  insensibility.  Vainly  I  cried  and  screamed 
for  help — it  seemed  that  it  would  never  come.  I 
sank  to  my  knees,  then  struggled  to  my  feet 
again. 

From  down  the  street  came  the  shouting  of 
orders  and  the  blurred  forms  of  men.  Almost  in 
an  instant  the  milling  figures  about  me  started  to 
run  as  a  detachment  from  the  fort  hurried  after 
them  to  put  them  under  arrest.  But  the  damage 
had  been  done  as  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

The  limit  of  my  endurance  had  been  reached. 
I  had  held  my  nerve  as  long  as  holding  it  was 
possible.  I  had  striven  my  best  to  keep  the  word 
I  had  given  on  the  boat,  back  in  the  days  just 
after  our  wedding — I  had  tried  to  be  brave;  but 
the  force  of  circumstances  had  been  too  much  for 
me.  Will  returned  from  his  hunt,  to  find  me  col- 
lapsed from  the  strain,  hysterical  and  nerve- 

75 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

wrecked.  Furiously  he  set  out  to  gain  vengeance 
on  every  man  who  had  participated  in  the  fight — 
but  that  was  impossible.  Then,  white-faced, 
trembling  with  anger,  he  returned  to  my  bedside. 

"Mamma,"  he  told  me,  "it's  a  good  thing  I 
didn't  find  them.  I  would  have  killed  them.  I'm 
sorry." 

"Will,"  I  answered,  "you  don't  need  to  be 
sorry.  It  wasn't  your  fault."  I  reached  out  and 
took  his  hand.  "I  just  couldn't  hold  up  any 
longer.  I  tried  to  be  brave — honestly  I  did." 

"You  were  brave,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a 
tenderness  in  his  voice  that  gave  recompense  for 
all  I  had  endured;  "braver  than  ever  I  dreamed. 
And  I'm  as  proud  of  you  as  I  am  sorry  that  this 
happened." 

I  was  in  the  hotel  now,  having  been  taken  there 
by  the  guard  detachment  that  had  insisted  on  a 
place  for  me,  and  Will  proclaimed  to  the  man- 
agement with  a  forcefulness  not  to  be  resisted, 
that  there  I  would  stay,  congestion  or  no  con- 
gestion. Will  had  his  way — as  he  usually  did 
when  he  narrowed  his  eyes  and  set  his  head  square 
on  his  shoulders,  with  the  result  that  the  days 
that  were  to  come  were  to  be  far  happier  ones 
in  many  ways  than  I  had  known  for  months, 

76 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

And  especially  were  they  happy  in  the  fact 
that  I  had  passed  through  my  baptism  of  fire, 
that  I  had  seen  the  West  in  some  of  its  worst  at- 
tire, and  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  break- 
down following  the  fight  around  the  tent,  I  had 
managed  some  way  to  pull  through.  Greater, 
even  than  that,  was  the  knowledge  that  I  was  to 
be  near  my  husband,  that  I  would  know  by 
courier  if  accident  should  befall  him  on  any  of  his 
hunting  and  scouting  trips,  and  that  I  would  not 
be  subject  to  nerve-racked  weeks,  until  a  letter 
should  tell  me  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AND  there  were  happy  days  to  come,  days  that 
were  full  of  brightness  and  enjoyable  incident,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  my  health  had  been  broken 
by  the  nervous  strain  I  had  undergone,  in  spite 
of  the  hardships  of  the  life,  and  the  tatterde- 
malion excuse  for  a  town  in  which  Will  and  I 
made  our  home.  Fort  Hays — or  Hays  City,  as 
it  now  is  known,  was  not  a  choice  metropolis  in 
those  days.  Like  my  husband's  unfortunate  town 
of  Rome,  it  had  grown  practically  overnight,  from 
a  short-grassed  stretch  of  prairie  to  a  conglomer- 
ation of  tents,  shacks,  frame  buildings,  gambling, 
whisky  and  soldiery.  The  population  had  swelled 
from  nothing  into  hundreds,  gathered  from  the 
plains  and  from  the  farther  West:  scouts,  hunt- 
ers, men  who  had  stopped  on  the  way  to  the  West, 
and  those  who  had  dropped  from  the  trail  on  the 
way  back  East  after  their  failure  to  glean  the 
gold  of  California  or  the  wealth  of  Colorado. 

A  sort  of  clearing  house  for  the  best  and  for 
the  worst  was  Hays  in  those  days.  The  Perry 

78 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Hotel,  in  which  Will  and  I  made  our  home — if 
a  shell  of  a  building,  with  partitions  extending 
only  part  way  to  the  ceiling,  with  no  carpets,  with 
clapboarded  walls  and  scant  furnishings,  can  be 
called  a  home — was  the  place  of  registration  for 
high  army  officials,  for  famous  plainsmen,  for 
gun-toters  and  man-killers,  for  soldiers  of  for- 
tune and  soldiers  of  the  regular  army,  for  gam- 
blers, early  day  get-rich-quick- Wallingfords,  for 
professors,  ne'er-do-wells,  college  graduates,  rail- 
road men,  hunters,  and  every  other  phase  of  hu- 
manity. The  streets  were  only  openings  between 
rows  of  shanties  and  tents,  where,  in  every  third 
habitation,  men  crowded  about  the  rough-board- 
ed bars  or  heaped  their  money  upon  the  gambling 
tables. 

Toneless,  clanging  pianos,  appearing  miracu- 
lously from  nowhere,  banged  and  groaned  in  the 
improvised  dance  halls.  Men  quarreled  and 
fought  and  killed.  The  crowded  little  streets, 
with  their  milling  throngs,  suddenly  would  seem 
to  be  cleared  by  magic — except  for  two  men,  one 
standing  with  his  revolver  still  smoking,  the  other 
a  crumpled  heap  in  the  dust.  Then  a  rush  for  a 
horse,  the  soft  clud  of  hoofs  and  only  one  form 
would  be  left — an  object  for  the  consideration  of 

79 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

a  quickly  assembled  coroner's  jury,  and  a  ver- 
dict of: 

"Death  from  gunshot  wounds." 

And  not  always  did  the  winner  of  the  duel  seek 
safety  in  the  number  of  miles  placed  between  him 
and  the  pursuing  posse.  More  often,  in  fact,  he 
would  wait  until  the  street  filled  again,  and  the 
friends  of  the  loser  carried  away  the  body.  Then 
he  would  turn  to  the  half  admiring  crowd  with 
the  simple  statement: 

"It  was  either  him  or  me,  boys.  Had  to  do  it. 
I  guess  it's  time  for  me  to  buy.  Let's  have  a  little 
red  liquor  and  forget  it." 

Whereupon  another  notch  would  find  its  way 
into  the  handle  of  a  killer's  gun,  one  of  the  many 
canvas-covered  saloons  would  do  a  rushing  busi- 
ness for  an  hour  or  so,  and  the  next  day  there 
would  be  a  new  grave  in  the  little  cemetery  just 
out  of  town.  One  man  more  or  less  made  little 
difference  in  the  West  of  those  days.  Each 
played  his  own  game,  each  made  his  own  laws,  as 
long  as  he  could  enforce  them,  and  each  appar- 
ently was  accountable  to  only  one  thing — Death. 

Strangely  enough,  in  spite  of  my  nervousness, 
and  the  weakened  condition  in  which  my  ordeal 
in  the  tent  had  left  me,  I  found  myself  little  af- 

80 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

fected  by  all  this.  I  had  accepted  the  West;  I 
had  learned  that  these  conditions  existed  and  that 
there  was  seemingly  no  cure  for  them  but  time, 
and  no  attitude  to  assume  except  that  of  indif- 
ference. 

Not  that  I  did  not  realize  the  status  of  the  en- 
vironment into  which  I  had  been  thrown,  nor  that 
Will  did  not  know  and  understand  what  it  all 
meant.  We  both  knew  and  we  both  understood, 
and  never  was  a  woman  more  carefully  guarded, 
more  thoroughly  shielded  than  I.  Through  Will's 
efforts,  orders  had  gone  forth  that  I  must  never 
leave  the  hotel  without  the  company  of  an  officer 
and  a  competent  guard,  and  that  should  any  harm 
come  to  me,  through  the  laxity  of  that  guard,  it 
would  be  cause  for  a  general  court-martial  and 
the  strictest  disciplinary  action.  The  result  was 
that  I  saw  all  that  Fort  Hays  had  to  offer  in  the 
looseness  of  its  lawless  youth,  yet  suffered  none 
of  the  consequences. 

My  fright  and  the  shock  to  my  nervous  system 
had  left  me  weak  physically  and  with  little  nerv- 
ous resistance.  Will  watched  over  me  with  all  the 
tenderness  and  care  that  a  mother  would  exert 
over  her  child.  Incidentally,  one  of  the  first 
things  that  he  had  done  was  to  procure  for  me 

81 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  services  of  a  young  Vassar  graduate — and 
how  she  had  ever  chosen  Fort  Hays  as  a  place  in 
which  to  live  is  more  than  I  can  understand — to 
care  for  Arta  and  to  take  from  my  mind  all  the 
worry  and  care  of  the  baby. 

By  special  permission,  Will's  hunting  and 
scouting  trips  had  been  shortened  considerably, 
with  the  result  that  he  was  seldom  gone  from 
Hays  City  for  more  than  a  few  days  at  a  time. 
In  those  days  I  would  sit  by  the  window  of  the 
rickety  little  hotel,  watching  the  life  of  the  tented, 
shack-lined  streets,  listening  to  the  crack  of  the 
bull- whips  as  the  heavy  wagon  trains  rumbled 
through,  to  the  banging  of  the  pianos  from  the 
dance  halls,  the  shouts  and  laughter  from  the 
saloons  and  gambling  "palaces,"  waiting,  waiting 
for  Will  to  come  home  again.  Then  would  come 
the  clickety-clud  of  hoofs,  the  sight  of  a  rushing 
figure,  the  form  of  a  man  who  swung  from  his 
saddle  and  was  on  the  ground  even  before  his 
horse  had  stopped,  the  booming  of  a  big  voice  as 
a  giant  figure  came  up  the  stairs — and  I  would 
be  in  my  husband's  arms  again. 

Then  would  follow  glorious,  happy  days,  in 
which  he  would  put  a  side-saddle  on  his  favorite 
horse,  Brigham,  and  we  would  ride,  far  out  into 

82 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  prairie.  There  Will  would  bring  forth  his 
heavy,  cumbersome  six-shooter  from  its  holster, 
and  hand  it  to  me. 

"The  next  time  anything  happens,"  he  said, 
more  than  once,  "I  want  you  to  shoot — and  shoot 
to  kill.  Now,  let's  see  whether  your  aim's  im- 
proving. Bang  away!" 

Whereupon  he  would  select  a  target,  which  to 
me  seemed  miles  away,  and  with  the  most  bland, 
child-like  expression,  tell  me  to  hit  it. 

"Hit  that?"  I  would  ask.  "Why,  Will,  a  per- 
son couldn't  hit  that  with  a  rifle,  let  alone  a  six- 
shooter." 

Will's  eyes  would  open  wide,  and  a  half -smile 
would  come  to  his  lips. 

"Give  me  that  gun,"  would  be  his  answer.  A 
swing,  a  sudden  steadying  of  the  wrist,  and  a 
burst  of  smoke.  Then  Will  would  turn  to  me 
with  a  courtly  bow.  "Please  go  look  at  the  tar- 
get," he  would  ask.  And  invariably  there  would 
be  a  bullet  hole  in  its  center. 

But  the  same  thing  did  not  happen  when  I 
shot.  It  was  true  that  he  had  taught  me  some- 
thing of  the  art  in  St.  Louis  and  in  Leavenworth 
— but  did  you  ever  try  to  swing  a  heavy  .44  cali- 
ber six-shooter  through  the  air,  bring  it  down  to 

83 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

a  level,  get  your  aim  and  pull  the  trigger  in  less 
than  a  second?  Will  would  not  let  me  shoot  any- 
other  way. 

"It's  quick  work  out  here  in  the  West,"  was 
his  constant  reminder.  "You  don't  shoot  unless 
you  have  to — and  then  you  shoot  quick.  Now,  try 
it  again." 

Following  which  I  would  bang  away  with  the 
old  gun  until  my  wrist,  my  arm,  even  my  shoulder 
would  ache  from  its  terrific  kick.  Day  after  day 
we  went  to  the  target  "range,"  with  the  inevitable 
result  that  gradually  I  learned  the  knack  of  as- 
sembling several  faculties  simultaneously,  and 
executing  the  aiming  of  the  gun,  the  pulling  of 
the  trigger  and  the  assimilation  of  the  recoil,  all 
at  once.  The  targets  began  to  show  more  and 
more  hits.  Then,  one  day,  Will  nodded  approv- 
ingly. 

"From  now  on,"  he  said,  "you'll  shoot  on  the 
run.  Let's  see  you  hit  that  target  with  Brigham 
going  at  a  gallop."  . 

And  so,  a  new  school  of  instruction  began — 
and  then  a  new  one  after  that.  Even  little  Arta 
did  not  escape  the  rigors  of  the  schooling  which 
my  husband  had  determined  to  give  me.  As  soon 
as  I  had  learned  to  shoot  from  the  back  of  a 

84 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

horse,  and  to  shoot  both  deliberately  and  by  sim- 
ply snapping  the  hammer,  Will  gathered  the 
baby  in  his  arms  one  day  and  took  her  with  us. 

"Put  Arta  on  your  lap,"  he  ordered.  "Now 
— that  target  over  there  is  an  Injun.  You've  had 
to  take  a  ride,  and  just  as  you  come  home,  this 
old  Red  Pepper  bobs  up  on  you.  I  want  you 
to  spur  Brigham  into  a  gallop  and  put  a  bullet 
through  that  old  reprobate's  head." 

"All  at  once?"  I  asked  vaguely. 

"Why,  of  course,"  my  husband  answered  as 
though  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  "You  know,  if  that  Injun's  out  for  busi- 
ness, he  ain't  going  to  wait  for  an  invitation  be- 
fore he  starts  shooting.  Gad!" — he  had  caught 
the  expression  from  a  college  professor,  and  was 
using  it  in  almost  every  sentence — "I'll  bet  a 
buffalo  hump  you  can  do  it  the  first  time." 

But  Will  was  a  bad  better.  I  missed  the  first 
time,  the  second,  and  consecutively  up  to  about 
the  hundredth,  while  Arta,  laughing  and  clapping 
her  hands — yet  shivering  at  every  blast  of  the 
old  six-shooter — called  for  more.  Will  looked  at 
me  ruefully. 

"I  guess  there's  only  one  thing  for  me  to  do. 
85 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

That's  to  get  rich.  I'll  never  pay  for  your  car- 
tridges any  other  way.  Try  it  again." 

I  did — and  this  time  I  nicked  the  target.  Then 
began  a  system  of  hit  and  miss,  until  at  last  I 
could  gallop  by  the  target  at  full  speed  and  put 
a  bullet  so  near  it,  at  least,  that  it  would  not  have 
been  comfortable  for  a  human  being.  Even  Will 
was  satisfied.  "I'll  feel  easier  now,  when  I'm 
away,"  he  said  simply  as  we  made  our  way  back 
to  town,  and  I  knew  what  was  in  his  mind.  He 
still  was  thinking  of  that  day  when  he  had  come 
home,  to  find  me  screaming  with  hysteria,  as  a 
result  of  the  attack  of  the  soldiers.  And,  I  must 
admit,  I  felt  a  great  deal  more  comfortable 
myself. 

So  were  the  days  spent.  At  night  the  "lobby" 
of  the  little  hotel  would  be  filled  with  officers  and 
scouts,  and  the  few  women  of  the  town  who  oc- 
cupied a  social  position  that  goes  with  the  term 
"a  good  woman."  I  am  afraid  that  in  those  early 
days  of  Fort  Hays,  just  as  it  was  in  every  other 
frontier  town  of  the  West,  the  good  women  were 
few  and  far  between.  But,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  we  who  clung  to  the  conventions  and  who 
took  pride  in  the  fact  that  we  held  a  position  in 
our  own  esteem,  were  far  fewer  in  number  than 

86 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  painted,  bedizened  persons  who  leered  from 
the  doorways  of  the  dance  halls  and  who,  more 
than  once,  played  one  man  against  the  other  for 
the  sheer  joy  of  seeing  the  swift  flash  of  revolvers, 
the  spurting  of  flame,  the  crumpling  of  a  human 
form  and  the  spectators  who  would  point  her  out 
as  a  woman  for  whom  one  man  had  killed  an- 
other; in  spite  of  these  conditions,  there  were 
enough  of  us  to  have  our  little  sewing  bees,  our 
social  functions,  such  as  they  were,  and  to  "go 
round,"  when  the  dining-room  of  the  Hotel  Perry 
was  cleared  of  its  rough  tables  and  rickety  chairs 
for  the  weekly  dance. 

And  such  dances!  High  on  a  hastily  impro- 
vised rostrum  would  be  the  fiddlers  and  perhaps 
some  wandering  accordion  player,  squeaking 
away  for  all  they  were  worth,  their  fiddles — 
they  could,  under  no  stretch  of  the  imagination, 
be  called  violins — scratching  out  the  popular  mu- 
sic of  the  time,  such  as  the  "Arkansas  Traveler," 
"Money  Musk,"  and  the  other  quickstep  music 
of  that  day,  while  out  before  them  would  be  the 
most  energetic  person  at  the  dance,  red  faced,  his 
arms  waving,  the  veins  standing  out  on  his  neck, 
his  voice  bawling: 

"Ladies-s-s-s-s-s  right,  gents  left!  Swing-g-g- 
87 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

g-g-g  yo'  podners,  one  an'  all,  do-se-do  an'  round 
th'  hall!" 

It  was  just  before  one  of  these  dances  that  Will 
came  hurrying  to  our  room,  his  eyes  bright  with 
excitement. 

'Tut  on  your  best  bib  and  tucker,"  he  an- 
nounced. "We're  going  to  have  some  celebrated 
visitors  at  the  dance  to-night." 

"Who?"  I  asked. 

"Texas  Jack  and  my  old  pardner,  Wild  Bill 
Hickok." 

"The  killer?" 

"Yes.  He  don't  dance  much,  but  he  said  he 
was  going  to  dance  with  Bill  Cody's  wife  if  he 
broke  a  leg.  And  I  want  you  to  look  your  pret- 
tiest." 

"For  a  killer?  Why,  Will,  I'd  be  afraid  to 
death  of  him." 

Will  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Wait  'till  you've  seen  him  first." 

I  must  admit  that  my  toilette  that  evening  was 
not  accomplished  with  any  great  joy.  The  stories 
of  Wild  Bill  Hickok  had  been  many  and  varied. 
The  notches  on  his  gun  were  almost  as  numerous 
as  the  accounts  of  his  various  battles.  Wild  Bill 
Hickok  had  never  been  known  to  snap  the  ham- 

88 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

mer  of  his  revolver  without  a  death  resulting. 
And  I  had  been  promised  to  him  that  night  for  a 
dance! 

For  one  of  the  few  times  in  my  life  I  was  angry 
with  Will  Cody,  my  husband.  I  pouted  all 
through  the  evening  meal,  and  when  Will  asked 
me  the  trouble,  I  told  him  without  much  equivo- 
cation. But  Will,  *humorist  that  he  was,  only 
grinned. 

"Just  like  a  woman,"  he  said  with  a  chuckle. 
"Get  mad  at  her  poor  husband  before  she  knows 
all  the  facts  of  the  case."  Then  he  became  seri- 
ous. "Lou,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  that  time 
in  St.  Louis  when  I  was  telling  you  about  my 
boyhood?  Remember  how  I  told  about  the  man 
who  had  protected  me  when  the  bull- whackers  of 
the  wagon  train  had  made  up  their  minds  to  make 
my  life  miserable?  If  you  remember  that,  you'll 
also  remember  the  fact  that  the  man  who  came 
to  my  assistance  was  Wild  Bill  Hickok.  When 
I  saw  him  to-day,  he  asked  for  a  dance  with  you. 
Could  I — or  should  I — have  said  'no'?" 

My  little  fit  of  anger  was  over. 

"Forgive  me,  Will,"  I  answered.  "I'll  dance 
with  him — even — even  if  I  will  be  afraid  every 

89 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

second  that  he'll  pull  out  a  revolver  and  start 
killing  everybody  on  the  floor." 

Again  Will  chuckled.  And  he  was  still  chuck- 
ling when  he  reached  the  room — nor  would  he  tell 
me  the  reason. 

The  hours  passed.  The  fiddlers  ascended  their 
rostrum,  the  caller  took  his  place  and  the  dance 
began.  Chills  were  running  up  and  down  my 
spine — I  was  soon  to  dance  with  a  man  who  had 
a  reputation  for  killing  just  that  he  might  see 
men  die,  and  who  was  supposed  to  have  defied 
every  law  ever  made  by  God  or  man.  A  dance 
went  by,  hazily.  Then  two  and  three.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  craning  of  necks,  and  I  saw  Will,  as 
though  from  a  great  distance,  talking  to  some 
man  who  had  just  entered.  A  moment  more  and 
Will  had  hurried  to  my  side. 

"Come  with  me,  Lou,"  he  ordered. 

I  obeyed  dully,  hardly  seeing  the  faces  about 
me  as  I  walked  forward. 

Then  suddenly  I  blinked.  Will  was  speaking, 
and  a  mild  appearing,  somewhat  sad-faced, 
blond-haired  man  had  bent  low  in  a  courtly  bow. 
Faintly  I  heard  Will  say: 

"Allow  me  to  present  Mr.  William  Hickok, 
Wild  Bill." 

90 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

And  this  was  Wild  Bill!  I  had  looked  for  a 
fiendish  appearing,  black-haired,  piercing-eyed 
demon,  and  had  found  a  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
Almost  gaspingly  I  told  him  I  was  glad  to  meet 
him — and  I  was  most  assuredly  glad  to  find  him 
a  different  sort  of  man  from  the  one  I  had  sup- 
posed. In  a  mild,  quiet  voice,  he  told  me  that 
he  had  made  a  request  of  my  husband — and  then 
added: 

"But,  of  course,  you're  the  final  judge.  Do 
you  think  that  you  could  manage  to  dance  a 
quadrille  with  me?" 

"Most  assuredly."  And  I  meant  it.  I  could 
have  danced  the  Highland  Fling,  I  believe — so 
happy  was  I  to  find  mildness  where  I  had  been 
led  to  believe  would  be  the  most  murderous  of 
persons.  Instinctively  I  looked  for  revolvers. 
There  were  none — not  even  the  slightest  bulge  at 
the  hips  of  the  Prince  Albert  he  wore.  I  was 
happier  than  ever. 

We  danced.  And  I  must  confess  that  we 
danced  and  danced  again  until  Will  laughingly 
put  a  stop  to  it.  And,  of  course,  it  was  just  like 
Will  to  say: 

"And  you  said  you  wouldn't  dance  with  a 
killer!" 

91 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Will!"  I  broke  in,  for  the  eyes  of  Wild  Bill 
had  turned  with  a  sharp,  quick  look — the  look  of 
a  man  when  he  realizes  his  reputation,  and  feels 
the  shame  of  it.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 
Then  Wild  Bill  looked  at  me  with  a  little  smile. 

"You've  been  hearing  stories?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  confessed. 

"Do  I  look  like  the  kind  of  a  man  who  would 
shoot  unless  he  had  to?" 

"No,"  I  confessed,  and  I  meant  it.  And  what 
was  more,  that  was  the  truth.  More  than  once, 
throughout  the  West,  I  have  found  persons  who 
have  talked  of  Wild  Bill  as  a  killer  of  men  who 
was  not  happy  unless  he  saw  the  body  of  a  human 
being  huddled  before  him.  But  that  was  not  the 
truth.  Now  that  my  interest  was  aroused,  I 
learned  Wild  Bill's  real  story  from  those  who 
knew  him,  and  the  only  murder  in  his  life  was 
the  one  in  which  he  himself  was  killed — he  was 
shot  in  the  back  during  a  card  game  at  Dead- 
wood,  S.  D. 

He  was  a  gambler,  it  is  true.  So  were  they  all 
in  the  early  days  of  the  West.  A  gun-fighter,  a 
dangerous  man  once  his  anger  went  to  the  steam- 
ing point,  and  as  deadly  with  his  revolver  as  a 
cobra  with  its  bite — such  was  Wild  Bill.  Many 

92 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

were  the  notches  on  Wild  Bill's  gun  for  the  rea- 
son that  he  never  missed,  that  when  he  pulled 
the  trigger,  his  opponent  fell,  never  to  rise  again. 

Perhaps,  all  this,  coming  from  a  woman,  sounds 
hard  and  cold  and  heartless.  It  is  not.  It  is  sim- 
ply the  echo  of  days  that  are  gone,  days  in  which 
one  was  obliged  to  follow  the  customs  of  the  coun- 
try— or  leave.  I  had  seen  my  share  of  lawless- 
ness; gradually  and  surely  it  had  been  forced 
upon  me  that  I  was  living  in  a  country  where 
Death  came  swiftly  and  frequently,  and  where 
human  life  was  of  little  worth.  Viewed  from  a 
cold  standpoint,  it  might  be  compared  to  the  rate 
of  exchange  in  a  foreign  country  where  the  unit 
of  money  is  of  small  value.  One  does  not  have 
the  same  respect  for  it  that  he  does  for  his  own 
unit  of  wealth.  Had  these  same  things  happened 
in  a  place  of  civilization,  I  would  have  been  in 
constant  terror.  But  I  was  in  the  West  now,  a 
different  land.  And  I  accepted  it  all. 

I  was  growing  a  little  stronger  physically,  and 
Will  now  and  then  would  venture  to  take  me  out 
to  the  races,  which  were  a  constant  occurrence  in 
Fort  Hays.  Naturally,  they  were  not  such  races 
as  one  sees  to-day,  with  great  grandstands,  silk- 
clad  jockeys,  Paris-gowned  women  and  the  thou- 

93 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

sand  and  one  evidences  of  luxury.  They  were  in 
keeping  with  the  West,  built  upon  Western  lines 
and — but  let  the  description  come  in  its  proper 
place. 

It  all  began  when  Will  rushed  to  me  with  a 
great  idea. 

"Just  happened  to  think  of  something,  Lou!" 
he  announced.  "I  want  to  make  a  good  showing 
when  you  come  out  to  that  race  Saturday,  and  I 
just  happened  to  think  that  there  ain't  a  soul  in 
town  that  can  sport  a  jockey  suit." 

"So  I'm  to  make  you  one?" 

"That's  just  it,"  he  said  enthusiastically. 
"Look!  I've  already  bought  the  goods!" 

He  dragged  a  parcel  from  beneath  his  arm,  and 
pulled  away  the  paper.  There,  flaming  up  at  me 
was  the  brightest,  most  glaring  piece  of  red  flan- 
nel that  I  ever  had  seen  in  my  life.  It  simply 
seemed  to  blaze — almost  as  much  as  the  enthu- 
siasm in  Will's  eyes. 

"I  guess  that'll  make  'em  know  that  there's 
somebody  riding  in  that  race!"  he  announced 
proudly.  "And,  Lou,  make  those  pants  so  tight 
I'll  have  to  take  'em  off  with  a  boot- jack!" 

When  I  finished  laughing,  I  examined  the 
goods.  It  was  flannel,  red  flannel — and  for  one 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

jockey  suit,  made  extra  tight,  Will  had  bought 
fifteen  yards  of  material! 

"Just  wanted  to  be  sure  that  you'd  have 
enough,"  he  explained  when  I  cut  off  the  amount 
I  would  need.  "Thought  if  there  was  any  left 
over,  you  might  make  a  dress  for  Arta  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind." 

"Oh,  you  go  on !"  I  laughed  at  him.  "The  rest 
of  that's  going  right  back  to  the  store.  So  bun- 
dle it  up  and  take  it  back  and  tell  them  you  want 
a  refund." 

"Oh,  Lou!"    His  face  was  almost  piteous.    "I 
-I  don't  want  to  go  back  there.    You — you  take 
it  back." 

"No  sirree.    You  bought  it." 

"But— but " 

"Now,  hurry  along,  Will.  Or  I  just  won't 
make  this  suit  for  you.  So  there." 

Will  looked  lugubriously  out  the  window,  hug- 
ging the  piece  of  red  flannel  tight  under  one  arm. 
A  long  time  he  stood  there,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  man  striving  to  screw  up  his  courage  to 
something  he  feared.  Then,  hesitatingly  he 
turned,  kissed  me  like  a  man  going  to  a  funeral. 
I  had  to  relent. 

95 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"You  dear  old  coward!"  I  chided  him.  "Afraid 
of  a  little  thing  like  that !  Never  mind.  I'll  go." 

His  face  beamed. 

"Gosh!"  he  broke  out.  "That's  sure  a  relief. 
I'll  kill  Injuns  any  day,  ride  pony  express,  do 
most  anything.  But,  Lou,  Mike  Gordon's  wife's 
got  the  hardest  face  I  ever  saw  in  my  life — and 
she's  working  up  in  the  store  now  and — and— 
what'd  I  done  if  she'd  said  she  wouldn't  take  it 
back?  You  can't  pull  a  gun  on  a  woman!" 

So,  even  the  bravest  can  show  fear — some- 
times. Will  had  faced  death,  exposure,  trials, 
tribulations,  and  more  than  once  disaster — but 
he  couldn't  face  Mike  Gordon's  wife.  So  I  had 
to  face  her  for  him,  then  hurried  back  to  the 
making  of  the  suit,  while  Will,  like  a  small  boy 
awaiting  his  first  pair  of  boots,  sat  humped  on  a 
small  chair,  awaiting  the  ordeal  of  "trying  on." 

It  was  a  wonderful  concoction  that  we  event- 
ually conceived — made  in  the  greatest  secrecy. 
A  flowing  blouse,  skin-tight  trousers,  a  cap  with 
a  visor  so  long  that  I  feared  it  would  tickle  the 
horse's  ears,  all  ending  in  a  pair  of  cowhide  boots. 
William  Frederick  Cody,  in  this  regalia,  was  the 
most  wonderful  specimen  of  human  foliage  that 
I  ever  had  seen.  We  both  laughed  until  the  tears 

96 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

came.  But  the  suit  had  been  made — and  Will 
wore  it. 

Perhaps  it  is  best  to  explain  that  horse  racing 
in  those  days,  in  the  West,  at  least,  was  an  en- 
tirely different  matter  from  the  race  track  style. 
Each  man  rode  his  own  horse,  and  no  matter 
whether  he  weighed  a  hundred  pounds  or  two 
hundred,  the  odds  were  the  same.  Every  scout 
who  rode  the  plains  possessed  some  horse  that  had 
saved  him  more  than  once  from  Indian  attack, 
and  in  which  he  placed  every  confidence  in  the 
world.  There  was  little  opportunity  for  com- 
petitive judgment,  with  the  result  that  a  group 
of  scouts  would  gather,  begin  to  extol  the  won- 
derful performances  of  their  horses,  start  an  ar- 
gument— and  end  the  whole  thing  by  arranging 
a  horse  race  which  the  whole  city  of  Hays  would 
attend. 

And  so  it  was  that  on  Saturday,  with  Will's 
wonderful  suit  concealed  beneath  a  long  linen 
duster,  that  we  journeyed  out  of  town  toward 
the  race  track.  That,  incidentally,  was  only  a 
name.  There  was  no  turf,  simply  a  stretch  of 
level  ground  in  a  valley,  where  some  one  had 
paced  off  a  mile,  and  where  the  townsfolk  could 

97 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

gather  all  along  the  track  to  cheer  on  the  victors 
and  console  the  losers. 

We  were  late  and  the  valley  was  thronged. 
Here  and  there  were  groups  of  men,  arguing, 
announcing  in  speeches  that  bore  no  sign  of  soft- 
ness, the  prowess  of  their  various  mounts.  Money 
was  changing  hands  from  the  betters  to  the  stake- 
holders. Here  and  there,  scattered  along  the 
mile  track,  were  little  tents — the  inevitable  trav- 
eling barrooms  that  accompanied  every  gather- 
ing of  people  in  the  West.  Will  and  I  stepped 
from  the  carryall,  and  quietly  approached  the 
largest  group.  Then  unostentatiously  Will  re- 
moved that  linen  duster. 

It  was  as  though  a  meteor  had  dropped  into  the 
valley.  The  arguments  ceased  as  if  they  had  been 
cut  off  with  a  sword.  The  bar-tents  emptied, 
horses  were  forgotten,  bets  neglected,  while  the 
population  of  Fort  Hays  and  environs  gathered 
about  myself  and  the  resplendent  William  Fred- 
erick Cody.  Very  quietly  Wild  Bill  Hickok,  a 
wad  of  money  still  clutched  in  his  hand,  where  it 
had  been  interrupted  in  the  placing  of  a  bet,  came 
forward  and  looked  intently  at  Will. 

"I  don't  guess  I'll  race  my  horse  to-day,"  he 
said  quietly. 

98 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"That's  a  good  horse,"  said  Wild  Bill  as  he 
turned  away.  "I'm  not  going  to  risk  him  going 
blind  from  looking  at  bright  lights." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  joking  and 
chaffing.  But  behind  it  all  was  envy,  deep,  gall- 
ing envy.  For  where  is  the  true  Westerner  of 
the  old  days  who  will  not  confess  a  failing  for 
color  and  plenty  of  it? 

Suddenly,  however,  the  joking  stopped  tem- 
porarily. The  Major  had  interrupted. 

"We'd  better  be  holding  our  races,"  he  an- 
nounced. "Some  of  the  men  have  reported  In- 
dians in  the  vicinity  and" — he  looked  at  Cody — 
"if  anything  can  draw  them  here  this  afternoon, 
it's  that  prairie  fire  that  Bill's  wearing.  So  will 
the  ladies  please  take  their  stations?" 

"Stations?"  I  asked. 

Will  turned  to  me. 

"Forgot  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "You're  the 
only  ones  that  work  out  here.  We  depend  on 
you  to  keep  your  eyes  out  for  the  Injuns." 

I  knew  what  that  meant,  to  constantly  watch 
the  hills  which  hedged  us  in  for  the  sight  of  bob- 
bing figures.  That  had  been  one  of  my  first  les- 
sons on  the  plains — on  the  road  out  to  Hays  City 

99 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

— to  know  that  an  animal  simply  moves  along  in 
a  straight  course,  that  a  man  on  horseback  can  be 
seen  traveling  in  a  straight  line,  but  that  an  In- 
dian raises  and  lowers  his  body  constantly. 

So,  out  we  went,  to  our  stations,  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  race  track,  where  we  could 
have  a  commanding  view  of  the  hills.  Now  and 
then,  as  I  watched,  I  could  see  the  crowds  mill- 
ing about  Will,  and  could  see  his  arms  gesticu- 
lating at  intervals  with  some  vehemence.  At 
last  he  turned  from  the  crowd  and  came  toward 
me. 

"Lou,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "you've  got  to  do 
a  lot  of  wishing." 

"Why?" 

"Because  if  I  don't  win  this  race " 

"Yes?"    He  had  hesitated. 

"Well,  you  see,"  came  his  qualifying  answer, 
"the  boys  all  said  I'd  taken  an  unfair  advantage. 
They  said  that  this  outfit  I've  got  on  will  dazzle 
any  horse  that  gets  behind  me,  and  that  it'll  burn 
my  horse  so  that  he  won't  know  which  way  he's 
running.  And  I  told  'em  that  if  they  had  any 
money  to  put  up  to  the  effect  that  this  wasn't  the 
best  jockey  suit  in  the  world  and  guaranteed  to 

100 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

any  old  kind  of  a  race,  I  might  be  interested. 
And  there  sure  appeared  a  lot  of  money." 

"And  did  you  bet?" 

"Everything,"  answered  Will. 

"All  your  money?" 

"Money?"  he  boomed  with  laughter.  "Shucks, 
Lou,  that  was  just  the  beginning.  I've  bet  this 
suit,  I've  bet  my  clothes,  I've  bet  that  side-sad- 
dle you're  sitting  on,  I've  bet  my  rifle  and  my  six- 
shooter  and — I've  even  bet  Brighaml" 


CHAPTER  V 

I  LAUGHED  too.  So  thoroughly  had  I  ab- 
sorbed the  genial,  happy-go-lucky  attitude  of  this 
man  of  the  plains  that  I  could  even  face  the  pos- 
sibility of  absolute  poverty  as  the  result  of  a 
horse  race  and  joke  about  it!  But  that  did  not 
mean  that  either  Will  or  myself  were  anxious  to 
lose. 

Some  one  shouted  from  the  track  and  Will 
turned  away.  I  watched  his  comical  red  figure, 
with  that  flowing  blouse,  those  skin-tight  red 
trousers  and  the  heavy  cowhide  boots,  go  along 
the  trail  and  toward  his  horse.  A  moment  more 
and  he  had  swung  into  the  saddle,  to  jog  down 
the  track  toward  the  starting  point,  while  I  re- 
sumed my  task  of  watching  the  hills. 

However,  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  entirely 
away  from  the  race  track.  When  everything  one 
possesses  is  at  stake,  even  the  thought  of  Indians 
cannot  keep  one  from  taking  a  little  peek  once 
in  a  while — and  so,  now  and  then,  my  eyes  would 
leave  the  hills  and  wander  far  away,  a  mile  down 

102 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  track,  to  where  the  forms  of  horses  and  men 
were  milling  about,  preparatory  to  the  start. 

A  sudden  spurt,  and  I  saw  that  the  race  had 
begun.  Everything  was  a  jumble  of  hazy  fig- 
ures except  one — the  red-clothed  Cody  stood  out 
on  those  plains  like  a  lighthouse.  And,  worst  of 
all,  I  could  see  that  he  was  not  in  the  lead. 

Hastily  I  turned  for  a  look  at  the  hills,  saw 
that  everything  was  serene,  then  looked  back 
again.  Another  horse  had  passed  Will,  and  he 
was  now  fourth  in  the  race.  Already  more  than 
a  quarter  of  the  distance  had  been  covered — and 
if  he  kept  dropping  back  that  much  every  quar- 
ter, where  on  earth  would  our  earthly  possessions 
be? 

But  in  the  next  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  he 
seemed  to  hold  his  same  position,  as  though  that 
would  help.  I  couldn't  see  any  joy  in  the  fact 
that  only  three  horses  would  beat  him.  Every- 
thing we  had,  even  the  horse  that  Will  Cody  was 
riding,  depended  on  his  being  first,  not  fourth.  I 
watched  intently,  forgetting  my  task  of  lookout, 
forgetting  everything  except  that  my  husband 
was  fourth  in  that  race  and  that 

"Mrs.  Cody!"    It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman 
103 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

at  my  side;  "do  you  see  anything  moving  over  on 
that  hill?" 

I  turned  abruptly.  A  second  passed.  Then, 
far  away,  I  saw  a  speck  show  against  the  horizon 
for  just  an  instant,  then  another,  and  another. 

"Indians!"  I  cried. 

We  whirled  our  horses  toward  the  crowds  and 
started  on  a  gallop,  screaming  our  warning  as 
we  went.  The  eager  watchers  of  the  race  sud- 
denly forgot  their  bets.  Men  ran  toward  their 
mounts.  A  big  revolver  boomed  forth  its  warn- 
ing, and  down  on  the  racetrack  the  riders  swerved 
from  the  straightaway,  out  into  the  plains,  drag- 
ging forth  their  guns  as  they  made  the  turn;  the 
race  a  thing  of  the  past  now. 

Hastily  the  men  rode  toward  us,  and  received 
what  information  we  could  give  them.  Then 
came  the  barking  shout  of  one  of  the  plainsmen, 
for  all  the  world  like  some  sort  of  a  caller  for  a 
square-dance : 

"Ladies  toward  town;  gents  toward  the  hills!" 

We  obeyed,  while  every  soldier,  officer,  scout 
and  plainsman  made  the  rush  against  the  In- 
dians, who  undoubtedly  had  been  attracted  by 
the  brilliant  hue  of  Will's  Little  Red  Riding 
Suit.  As  we  hurried  along,  we  could  hear  the 

104 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

barking  of  guns  in  the  distance,  and,  safely  at 
the  edge  of  the  valley,  we  paused  to  await  the 
outcome.  For  there  was  not  one  of  us  who  did 
not  have  a  husband  up  there  where  the  guns  were 
sounding,  a  husband  who  might  fall  victim  to 
the  musket-ball  of  some  old  Indian  rifle,  or  be 
stung  by  the  barb  of  an  arrow. 

Anxiously  we  waited,  then  brightened,  for  the 
sounds  of  firing  faded  from  the  far  away,  and 
soon  we  could  sight  the  forms  of  the  returning 
Indian  hunters.  The  rest  of  the  women  sought 
vainly  to  identify  the  men  they  loved,  and  I  tried 
to  help  them.  For  my  heart  was  easy.  The  first 
thing  I  had  seen,  distant  though  those  horsemen 
might  be,  was  the  glaring  red  of  Will  Cody's 
jockey  suit.  And  then  indeed  was  I  truly  grate- 
ful for  the  wonderful  idea  of  the  boyish,  rollick- 
ing plainsman  who  had  brought  it  into  being. 

Gradually  the  men  grew  closer,  and  at  last 
reached  us,  with  the  information  that  the  Indians 
had  departed  without  a  fight,  followed  by  sundry 
revolver  bullets  fired  at  long  range.  There  had 
been  only  one  casualty — and  that  to  the  horse 
race.  All  the  horses  were  fagged  now,  it  would 
be  an  impossibility  to  get  a  spirited  contest  out 

105 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

of  them.    The  bets  were  returned,  and  once  again 
I  could  count  our  possessions  as  our  own. 

I  looked  upon  it  all  as  a  stroke  of  great  for- 
tune. I  sang  and  hummed  as  Will  and  I  rode 
side  by  side  back  toward  town.  But  Will's  face 
was  like  a  coffin.  I  leaned  toward  him  laugh- 
ingly. 

"Cheer  up,  Willie,"  I  said,  "maybe  Brigham 
was  just  having  an  off  day." 

"Huh?"  he  stared  at  me. 

"Next  time,"  I  continued,  "he'll  be  running  in 
form  and " 

"That's  just  it,"  came  his  answer,  "he  was 
runing  in  form  to-day." 

"But  what  of  it?    You  didn't  lose." 

"But  I  did." 

"Do  you  mean" — a  quick  fear  shot  through 
my  heart — "that  anybody  could  want  a  bet  on  a 
race  that  wasn't  finished?  They  couldn't  make 
you  pay  for " 

Will  raised  in  his  saddle. 

"Lou,"  he  said  with  a  sad  smile,  "I  don't  guess 
you  understand  horse  racing.  I  lost  to-day  be- 
cause I  didn't  win.  When  that  Injun  scare 
bobbed  up  I  had  all  the  money  in  the  world,  right 
in  my  hands.  All  I  needed  was  the  home  stretch 

106 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

and  Brigham  would  have  shot  out  like  a  sky- 
rocket. Why,  I  hadn't  even  let  it  run  fast  enough 
to  turn  a  hair!" 

And  I  had  given  the  alarm  that  had  spoiled  the 
race!  But,  even  so,  I  was  just  as  happy.  Risk- 
ing everything  you  own  upon  the  running  quali- 
ties of  a  scout  horse  is  not  an  enjoyable  thing. 
For  once  I  was  glad  there  were  Indians  on  the 
plains. 

But  all  the  races  were  not  so  tempestuous.  Of 
course,  it  would  not  have  been  a  Western  affair 
if  money  had  not  changed  hands;  but,  as  a  gen- 
eral thing,  moderation  was  used.  For  to  the 
horse  owner,  a  horse  race  won  was  a  vindication 
of  good  judgment,  and  that  was  reward  enough 
for  the  man  who  loved  that  horse  as  a  thing  that 
had  borne  him  and  saved  his  skin  more  times 
than  once. 

Many  times  afterward  I  went  to  the  little  val- 
ley, and  more  times  than  one  I  gave  the  Indian 
alarm  again.  My  eyes  were  particularly  keen, 
and  I  came  to  be  depended  upon  as  an  Indian 
lookout — an  Indian  lookout  who  only  a  few  years 
before  had  been  a  romantically-minded  girl  of 
old  St.  Louis,  without  even  a  dream  that  she 
some  day  would  see  adventures  far  wilder  than 

107 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

those  of  the  imaginative  novels  she  so  eagerly 
devoured. 

An  Indian  lookout — but  just  the  same,  the  old 
thought  of  St.  Louis  still  lingered,  and  grew 
stronger  as  my  health  began  once  more  to  fail 
and  my  nerves  to  become  frayed  and  raw.  I  never 
had  fully  recovered  from  the  effects  of  my  nerv- 
ous shock,  and  now  the  tired  nerves  were  begin- 
ning to  call  for  the  comforts  of  home,  the  little 
luxuries  that  were  impossible  to  obtain  out  here 
in  the  West,  the  niceties  that  were  invariably 
lacking. 

It  all  was  a  perverse  viewpoint,  for  in  truth  I 
had  come  to  like  the  West  as  I  never  had  liked 
the  closeness  of  the  city.  I  had  come  to  love  the 
free,  bright,  clear  air,  the  crispness  of  the  atmos- 
phere in  the  morning,  the  broad  stretches,  the 
great  splotches  of  wonderful  coloring  at  sunset; 
yet  with  this  love  in  my  heart,  and  particularly 
the  love  for  the  man  who  typified  to  me  all  that 
was  good  and  wonderful  in  this  great,  open  coun- 
try, some  Imp  of  the  Perverse  within  me  called 
continually: 

"The  city — the  city!  The  smooth,  paved 
streets,  the  trees,  the  sidewalks.  The  pretty  win- 

108 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

dows  of  the  stores,  the  fine  dresses — the  city,  the 
city!    That's  where  you  want  to  be!" 

I  was  homesick — homesick  for  something  I  did 
not  really  want.  Such  are  the  vagaries  of  one's 
nerves.  Then,  it  all  took  definite  shape,  in  a  defi- 
nite longing  for  one  thing — something  that  would 
typify  the  city,  that  would  typify  luxury  and 
comfort  and  ease;  the  straight  lines  of  tree- 
fringed  streets,  a  silly  thing,  perhaps,  but  all 
things  are  silly  except  when  viewed  by  the  per- 
son who  believes  in  them.  And  I  believed  in  this : 
I  wanted  a  buggy,  a  soft-cushioned  buggy  with 
light  springs  and  a  patent-leather  dashboard  and 
a  place  to  carry  a  whip.  And  I  wanted  that 
buggy  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 

But  such  things  were  not  plentiful  in  Hays 
City.  Kansas  City  was  miles  away,  and  it  was 
from  there  only  that  such  a  thing  could  be  pro- 
cured. More,  I  knew  that  my  husband  had  no 
money  to  buy  such  a  luxury.  And  so  I  wished  in 
silence. 

Then  came  the  great  chance.  It  was  late  one 
afternoon  when  I  heard  Will  bounding  up  the 
stairs,  three  at  a  time.  He  threw  open  the  door, 
and  as  I  rose  to  kiss  him,  he  lifted  me  in  his  great 
arms  as  though  I  were  a  child. 

109 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Honey,"  he  shouted,  "we're  rich!  That's 
what!  We're  rich!  Guess  what's  happened!" 

"You've  founded  a  new  town!"  I  joked. 

"Nothing  like  it.  I'm  going  to  get  five  hun- 
dred dollars  a  month  for  doing  nothing." 

"For  w-h-a-t?" 

"For  doing  nothing — just  fooling  around  a 
little  bit  and  using  up  a  little  ammunition.  I've 
made  a  contract  with  Goddard  Brothers  to  fur- 
nish all  the  meat  for  the  Kansas  Pacific.  All 
I've  got  to  do  is  kill  twelve  buffalo  a  day!" 

"Is  that  all?"  I  laughed. 

"Shucks!    That's  nothing  at  all." 

And  for  Will  Cody  it  was  nothing.  Those 
were  the  days  when  buffalo  rode  the  plains  in 
great  herds,  ranging  anywhere  from  fifty  head  to 
five  hundred,  and  more  than  once,  Will  had  killed 
twenty  and  thirty  buffalo  out  of  a  herd  while  on 
a  casual  hunt.  Therefore,  with  buffalo  hunting 
as  a  business,  it  seemed  a  simple  matter  for  him 
to  procure  an  average  of  twelve  a  day. 

And  it  was.  There  were  often  stretches  of 
two  and  three  days  at  a  time  when  Will  did  not 
stir  out  of  Hays  City.  The  weather  was  cool, 
permitting  the  meat  to  be  kept  fresh,  and  a  large 
herd  of  buffalo  invariably  meant  days  of  rest  for 

110 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

my  husband,  at  a  salary  of  five  hundred  dollars 
a  month.  And  while  this  lasted,  the  old  nerve- 
sadness  was  far  away. 

Then  came  a  stretch  of  lean  days,  when  the 
buffalo  roamed  far  from  Hays  City,  and  when  it 
was  necessary  for  Will  and  the  wagons  that  were 
to  transport  the  meat  to  travel  day  and  night  to 
procure  the  necessary  meat  for  the  workmen  of 
the  railroad.  Then,  too,  the  road  was  building 
farther  on,  and  there  were  often  camps  where 
Will  would  make  his  headquarters  instead  of 
making  the  long  trip  back  to  Hays  City.  And 
on  those  days,  the  silly,  insistent  call  would  come 
again  for  that  trinket,  that  plaything — a  buggy. 

And  when  Will  came  back  from  his  next  hunt, 
I  asked  him  for  it.  His  face  took  on  a  queer  ex- 
pression and  he  just  stood  and  looked  at  me  for 
a  moment. 

"Why  do  you  want  it,  Lou?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Will,"  came  my  answer.  "I've 
just  got  a  craving  for  it — like  a  person  would 
have  a  craving  for  fruit  or  for  water.  I — I  guess 
I'm  a  little  homesick." 

"Then  I'll  send  you  home  for  a  visit." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  home,"  I  answered 
111 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

with  that  perversity  so  common  to  nervous  pros- 
tration. "I — I  just  want  that  buggy." 

"But,"  Will's  voice  was  slow  and  serious,  "you 
would  want  to  drive  out  into  the  country  with  it." 

"That's  just  it,"  I  broke  in.  "I  want  to  go  out 
in  the  evening  and  watch  the  sunsets,  and  feel  the 
cool  air  and  be  free.  And  when  you  are  not  here, 
I  want  to  go  alone — just  Art  a  and  myself.  Will, 
I  never  go  anywhere  except  under  guard.  There 
is  always  some  one  watching,  watching  all  the 
time.  I  know  it's  for  my  safety — but  you  under- 
stand, don't  you,  Will?" 

He  came  to  me  and  patted  my  cheek. 

"Of  course  I  understand,"  he  said  gently. 
"And  it's  just  because  I  understand  that  it  hurts 
me.  If  I  didn't.  I  would  simply  tell  you  that  you 
couldn't  have  it,  Lou.  Buggies  are  slow,  Honey. 
Indians  are  swift.  You  would  never  escape." 

"But,  Will— I  won't  drive  far." 

He  smiled,  as  though  he  knew  that  he  would 
yield  in  the  end. 

"I'll  order  the  buggy  from  Kansas  City  to- 
morrow," came  his  quiet  reply,  and  the  question 
was  settled. 

While  we  waited,  Will  asked  me  to  come  with 
112 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

him  to  one  of  the  extended  camps  of  the  railroad, 
and  I  did  so.  The  creaking  old  train  reached 
there  early  in  the  morning  and,  leaving  me  in  the 
care  of  the  commissary  steward,  Will  saddled  his 
horse  and  hurried  away.  Soon  a  wagon  appeared 
in  the  distance,  and  I  heard  a  voice  calling  to  the 
cook. 

"Hey,  Red!  Something  coming  in.  Looks 
like  the  buffalo  wagon." 

"Buffalo  wagon,  huh?"  came  the  shouted  an- 
swer. "Bill  with  it?" 

"Nope." 

"Guess  it  must  just  have  a  few  on  it  then. 
Probably  bringing  'em  in  while  old  Buffalo  Bill 
chases  the  rest  of  the  herd." 

The  commissary  steward  laughed. 

"What'd  you  call  him?" 

"Buffalo  Bill,"  answered  the  cook. 

"Where'd  you  get  that  up?" 

"Oh,  it  ain't  mine.  Got  a  fellow  working  down 
on  the  section  that  made  up  a  piece  of  poetry 
about  it.  Runs  something  like : 

"Buffalo  Bill,  Buffalo  Bill, 
Never  missed  and  never  will; 
Always  aims  and  shoots  to  kill, 
And  the  comp'ny  pays  his  buffalo  bill!" 

113 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

The  commissary  man  doubled  with  laughter. 

"That's  shore  pert!"  he  chuckled.  "I'm  going 
out  and  recite  that  to  the  bunch  around  here. 
They  ain't  heard  it  or  I'd  known  about  it  before 
this." 

Then,  repeating  the  doggerel  over  and  over 
again  to  be  sure  of  memorizing  it,  he  started 
forth,  little  knowing  that  he  was  about  to  per- 
petuate a  name  that  would  travel  around  the 
world,  that  would  be  repeated  by  kings  and 
queens,  presidents  and  regents,  and  that  would 
eventually  become  known  to  every  child  who 
breathed  the  spirit  of  adventure.  For  thus  was 
Buffalo  Bill  named,  named  for  the  buffalo  that 
he  killed  that  he  might  buy  a  buggy  to  appease 
the  fancy  of  a  nerve-strained,  illness-weakened 
wife. 

And  how  that  name  traveled !  That  afternoon, 
when  Will,  with  "Lucretia  Borgia,"  his  old  buf- 
falo gun,  slung  across  his  saddle,  came  back  from 
the  hunt,  he  was  greeted  by  grinning  workmen 
who  shouted  the  new  title  at  him — nor  was  Will 
ever  anything  but  proud  to  be  so  designated. 
Buffalo  Bill  he  became  that  day,  and  Buffalo 
Bill  he  remained  even  after  death,  the  typifica- 
tion  of  the  old  West,  when  the  buffalo  roamed 

114 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  short  grass  and  when  the  New  World  was 
young. 

Even  before  we  could  return  to  Fort  Hays, 
the  name  had  traveled  there  and  struck  the  fancy 
of  every  one.  The  hotel  keeper  spoke  it  with  a 
smile  when  we  came  home  again.  The  rangers 
and  cowmen  and  scouts  and  gamblers  shouted  it 
at  him  along  the  streets.  Will  Cody,  famous 
though  he  had  been  as  a  scout  and  as  a  hunter, 
now  suddenly  found  himself  invested  with  a  new 
power  and  a  new  glory — through  the  application 
of  a  euphonious  nickname. 

And  the  name  spread  through  the  days  and 
weeks  that  followed.  Every  one  insisted  on  using 
it,  even  the  station  agent  when  he  came  to  the 
hotel  to  announce  that  the  long-looked- for  buggy 
had  arrived.  And  like  two  children  with  a  new 
plaything,  Will  and  I  went  down  to  watch  it  un- 
crated. 

A  beautiful,  shiny,  soft  cushioned  thing  it  was, 
and  I  was  as  happy  as  a  child  with  a  new  toy. 
Will  was  quiet;  his  eyes  serious,  in  spite  of  the 
joy  that  he  took  in  my  happiness. 

"We'll  go  driving  to-night!"  I  announced. 
Will  shook  his  head. 

"I  believe  we'd  better  wait,"  he  said  slowly. 
115 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Maybe  we'd — we'd  better  drive  it  around  town 
for  a  while,  until  we  get  used  to  it." 

"Foolish!"  I  laughed.  "Get  used  to  a  buggy? 
Whoever  heard  of  such  a  thing?" 

"Well,  Brigham's  not  used  to  it,"  he  fenced. 
"And  besides " 

"Will,"  I  said  plaintively,  "I  want  to  go  driv- 
ing this  evening.  Won't  you  take  me — please?" 

He  turned. 

"Lou,"  he  said,  "there  are  Injuns  around— 
plenty  of  them.  Every  scout  that  comes  into  the 
fort  brings  some  kind  of  a  story  about  a  brush 
with  them.  I " 

"Please,  Will.  We'll  only  go  out  a  little 
ways." 

Will's  face  suddenly  took  on  an  expression 
that  was  unlike  anything  I  ever  had  seen  be- 
fore. 

"Very  well,  Lou,"  he  said  quietly,  and  three 
hours  later  we  were  driving  out  into  the  country. 

Will  was  silent — in  a  silence  that  went  entirely 
unnoticed  by  me.  For  I  was  happy  and  chatter- 
ing about  everything  I  saw,  clucking  to  Brigham 
who  seemed  a  bit  nervous  in  his  new  outfit — he 
had  been  driven  very  few  times  in  his  life — hum- 

116 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ming  and  happy.  At  last,  Will  touched  me  on 
the  arm. 

"We'd  better  turn  here,"  he  urged. 

"Oh,  no.  Let's  go  on  up  to  the  hill  there.  I 
want  to  watch  the  sunset." 

"It's  safer  to  turn  here." 

"But " 

"Lou,  I've  been  a  scout  a  good  many- 
years " 

"Yes,  and  you  go  out  and  risk  all  sorts  of 
dangers  and  never  worry  a  minute  about  your- 
self. But  if  I  take  a  little  buggy  ride It's 

just  up  on  the  hill,  Will,"  I  begged,  "it's  only  a 
little  ways." 

I  saw  Will  turn  anxiously  in  the  seat  and  look 
back  toward  town.  Then  he  settled  down  again, 
more  watchful  than  ever. 

"Be  ready  to  turn  at  any  minute,  Lou,"  he 
told  me. 

But  I  laughed  at  his  fears.  I  was  in  a  new 
world — one  created  by  a  foolish  four-wheeled 
contraption — and  I  was  looking  at  the  world 
through  rose-colored  glasses.  At  another  time, 
it  all  might  have  been  different.  But  now 

I  clucked  to  Brigham  and  we  went  on,  down 
the  twisting  road  to  the  hill,  and  started  its  steep 

nr 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ascent.  The  sun  was  just  setting,  and  letting 
the  reins  lag,  I  watched  it,  watched  the  play  of 
the  colors,  the  changing  hues,  the  violets  merging 
into  the  lavenders,  the  gold  and  soft  grays  and 
softer  pinks — only  to  swerve  suddenly  as  Will 
jerked  at  the  reins,  and  with  a  sharp-spoken 
order,  turned  Brigham  almost  in  his  tracks. 
Then  the  whip  cut  through  the  air,  lashing  down 
upon  the  back  of  the  horse  and  causing  it  almost 
to  leap  out  of  its  harness.  A  cry  of  excitement 
came  to  my  lips,  only  to  be  stifled  by  the  voice  of 
Cody,  lapsing  into  the  vernacular: 

"Injuns!    Take  these  reins." 

Brigham  was  galloping  now,  galloping  in  har- 
ness, the  buggy  swaying  and  careening  behind 
him  as  he  rushed  down  the  hill  and  on  toward  the 
winding  road  beyond.  Will  shifted  in  his  seat 
and  raised  himself  on  one  knee.  I  felt  his  elbow 
bump  against  me  and  knew  that  he  was  reaching 
for  his  revolver.  Then  he  bent  over  and  kissed 
me  on  the  cheek. 

"Lou,"  he  called  above  the  noise  of  Brigham's 
hoofs  and  the  bumping  of  the  buggy,  "I  want 
you  to  know  that  I  love  you  better  than  anything 
else  in  the  world.  That's  why  I  may  have  to  do 

something  that — that 

118 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Will!" 

I  looked  up  hurriedly.  Something  had  touched 
my  head.  It  was  Will's  revolver,  and  he  was 
holding  it,  pointed  straight  at  my  temple.  I 
screamed. 

"Will— Will!" 

My  husband  looked  down  at  me,  his  face  old 
and  lined  and  hard. 

"They've  got  rifles,"  he  said  shortly.  "I've  only 
got  this  revolver.  They  can  outdistance  me.  I 
want  to  be  ready — so  that  if  they  get  me,  I  can 
pull  the  trigger  before  I  fall.  It's  better  for  a 
woman  to  be  dead,  Lou — than  to  be  in  their 
hands." 

The  breath  seemed  to  have  left  my  body.  I 
wanted  to  scream,  to  laugh,  to  sing,  anything  ex- 
cept to  realize  that  at  my  side  was  my  husband, 
nerving  himself  to  fire  the  bullet  that  would  kill 
his  own  wife,  rather  than  allow  her  to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  pursuing  enemy.  On  and  on  we 
went,  the  buggy  rolling  and  rocking,  dropping 
into  the  hollows  and  gulleys  of  the  road,  then 
bounding  out  again  as  the  faithful  old  Brigham 
plunged  on.  Up  above  me,  I  heard  Will  talking 
to  himself,  as  though  striving  for  strength  to  hold 
to  his  resolve.  With  all  the  strength  I  had,  I 
119 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

placed  the  reins  in  one  hand,  then  with  the  free 
one,  reached  outward.  I  touched  Will's  arm. 
Then  I  felt  his  left  hand,  icy  cold,  close  over 
mine.  We  sped  onward. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile.  A  half  mile.  Then  from 
the  distance  a  faint,  thudding  sound.  Will  bent 
close  to  me. 

"Remember,  Lou,"  he  said  again,  "if  the  worst 
comes — it  was  because  I  loved  you." 

I  pressed  his  hand  tight  and  the  rocking,  leap- 
ing journey  continued.  Alternate  fever  and 
chilling  cold  were  chasing  through  my  veins.  My 
teeth  were  chattering,  my  whole  being  a-quiver. 
On  and  on,  while  the  thudding  sounds  from  the 
distance  seemed  to  grow  nearer.  Then,  sud- 
denly, I  felt  Will  swing  from  my  side,  and  turn 
in  the  buggy.  I  saw  him  raise  his  revolver  and 
fire,  straight  into  the  air.  He  waved  his  arms 
and  shouted. 

"Hurry,  Lou!"  he  boomed,  "a  little  more  and 
we're  safe!  Hurry — hurry!" 

Again  the  whip  cut  through  the  air.  Then,  far 
ahead,  I  saw  the  forms  of  men,  urging  their 
horses  forward. 

"It's  some  of  the  boys,"  Will  called  to  me.  "I 
120 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

asked  them  to  ride  out  along  the  road  if  we  didn't 
get  back  on  time." 

The  forms  came  closer.  Cody  waved  and 
shouted  to  them  and  pointed  to  the  distance.  A 
clattering  rush  and  they  had  passed  us — on  to- 
ward the  hills  and  the  place  where  a  pursuing 
band  of  Indians  now  would  become  a  fleeing, 
scattering  group  of  fugitives.  Weakly  I  sank 
forward.  Dully  I  felt  Will  take  the  reins  from 
my  hands.  Then  the  world  went  black.  The 
slender  thread  of  my  resistance  had  snapped. 

When  consciousness  came,  I  found  myself  back 
in  the  hotel  with  Will  and  a  doctor  by  my  side. 
I  heard  something  about  St.  Louis  and  the  neces- 
sity for  waiting  a  few  days  until  I  should  gain  a 
little  strength.  Then  I  learned  that  the  verdict 
had  been  passed,  that  the  physician  had  ordered 
me  home.  And  I — well,  I  cried,  cried  like  a  child 
who  had  lost  her  doll,  cried  because  I  felt  that 
after  believing  my  battle  won,  I  had  allowed  my- 
self to  be  defeated. 

A  week  later,  we  went  back  to  St.  Louis,  Will 
and  Arta  and  myself.  Again  in  Old  French- 
town,  Will  said  good-by  to  me,  there  on  the 
little  veranda  where  first  he  had  told  me  the  story 
of  his  boyhood,  and  told  me: 

121 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"I'll  be  waiting,  Lou — but  you  must  not  come 
back  until  you  are  well  and  strong  again.  You'll 
promise?" 

"I  promise,"  was  my  answer.  But  the  promise 
was  not  to  be  fulfilled  for  many  months,  and  then 
only  for  a  visit. 

It  was  more  than  a  year  afterward  that  I  went 
downtown  one  afternoon,  suddenly  to  be  halted 
by  a  glaring  poster,  flaunting  forth  from  a  wall: 

GRAND    EXCURSION 

to 

FORT     SHERIDAN 

KANSAS  PACIFIC  RAILROAD 

BUFFALO  SHOOTING  MATCH 

FOR 

$500  A  SIDE 

AND   THE 

CHAMPIONSHIP  OF  THE  WORLD 

BETWEEN 

BILLY  COMSTOCK  (The  famous  scout) 

AND 

W.  F.  CODY  (Buffalo  Bill) 

FAMOUS  BUFFALO  K.ILLEB    FOB   THE  KANSAS  PACIFIC  BAILBOAD 

122 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

And  with  that,  all  the  pent-up  longing  for  the 
West  that  I  had  resisted  so  strongly  during  the 
months  of  illness  which  had  followed  my  arrival 
in  St.  Louis,  surged  up  again  in  me.  There,  in 
that  glaring  sign,  the  West  called  to  me,  the  wide 
stretches  of  the  prairie,  the  twisting,  winding 
roads,  the  faint  sight  of  wagon  trains  in  the 
distance,  and  the  jackrabbit  bobbing  over  the 
soap-weed.  I  wanted  to  go  back  home — for  the 
sudden  realization  came  over  me  that  St.  Louis 
no  longer  was  home,  that  it  was  a  quiet,  staid, 
tame  old  city,  that  it  was  cramped  and  crowded, 
that  even  the  trees  which  lined  the  streets  were 
prisoners  of  the  sidewalk  and  the  curb,  prisoners 
just  like  me. 

I  wanted  to  be  where  the  smoke  did  not  hang 
in  the  atmosphere  on  gray  days,  where  the  sun 
shone  bright  and  keen  and  where  life  was  as  free 
as  the  air.  Quickly  I  changed  my  course.  With- 
in fifteen  minutes,  a  telegram  was  traveling  to  my 
husband,  telling  him  that  I  believed  I  had  im- 
proved sufficiently  to  allow  me  to  visit  him  and  to 
attend  the  match.  And  when  the  excursion  train, 
with  its  flare-stacked  locomotive,  pulled  out  of  the 
station  at  St.  Louis,  it  carried  two  pasengers  as 
eager  to  reach  the  end  of  the  journey  as  the  man 

123 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

who  awaited  them  was  anxious  to  receive  them. 
Arta  and  myself  were  Westward  bound  once 
more,  traveling  toward  Fort  Sheridan,  to  see 
Buffalo  Bill,  our  Buffalo  Bill,  shoot  bison  for  the 
championship  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  excursion  consisted  of  about  one  hundred 
men  and  women  from  St.  Louis — travel  to  Kan- 
sas in  those  days  cost  a  great  deal  more  than  it 
does  even  in  these  days  of  advanced  railroad 
rates.  The  journey  was  a  long  one,  and  a  tire- 
some one,  but  not  one  of  us  regretted  it.  Es- 
pecially wras  this  true  of  myself.  I  was  going 
back  to  the  West. 

For  forty-eight  hours  the  old  train  dragged 
along,  then  stopped,  twenty  miles  east  of  Fort 
Sheridan.  There  wagons  and  horses  awaited  the 
excursionists,  and  an  anxious  buffalo  killer  sought 
out  Arta  and  myself.  It  was  early  morning,  and 
soon  after  the  greetings,  we  were  on  our  way  to 
the  buffalo  grounds. 

The  bison  were  especially  plentiful  in  the 
vicinity  of  Fort  Sheridan,  the  reason  this  place 
had  been  selected.  Billy  Comstock  was  a  famous 
scout  and  buffalo  killer  from  Fort  Wallace,  and 
as  usual,  it  all  had  started  in  an  argument.  So 

125 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

now,  in  front  of  visitors  from  hundreds  of  miles 
away,  the  matter  was  to  be  settled. 

Not  that  the  buffalo  were  to  be  run  before  the 
spectators  and  killed  a  la  carte.  A  sight  of  the 
various  "runs"  might  perhaps  mean  miles  of 
trailing  far  in  the  rear  of  the  hunters,  until  the 
sound  of  the  guns  should  give  the  signal  that  the 
shooting  had  begun  and  that  the  buffalo  were  too 
busy  to  notice  anything  except  the  hunters  who 
had  pounced  upon  them.  And  every  one  of  those 
hundred  excursionists  was  more  than  willing  to 
make  the  trip. 

However,  the  journey  was  not  as  long  as  had 
been  expected.  Hardly  a  mile  from  the  starting 
point  Will  sighted  a  herd  of  nearly  two  hundred 
buffalo,  and  the  excursionists  assembled  on  a  hill 
from  which  they  could  watch  practically  the  en- 
tire operation  of  the  first  "run,"  as  the  onslaughts 
were  called.  Referees  were  appointed,  their 
watches  set  together,  and  the  two  contestants 
given  a  certain  time  from  the  moment  they  ran 
their  horses  into  the  herd,  separating  their  groups, 
to  kill  as  many  of  the  great,  hulking  animals  as 
possible.  Will  was  riding  Brigham  and  carried 
the  old  gun  which  served  him  so  well  on  his  hunts 
for  the  Kansas  Pacific,  "Lucretia  Borgia."  Com- 

126 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

stock  was  on  a  horse  that  he  prized  as  much  as 
Cody  prized  Brigham,  and  carried  a  gun  in  which 
he  believed  with  equal  faith.  The  two  men  struck 
their  mark.  The  referee  waved  a  hand. 

"Go!"  came  the  shout.  The  horses  and  riders 
plunged  forward,  the  referee  and  his  assistants 
hurrying  behind,  while  tenderfoot  men  and 
women  from  St.  Louis  gripped  their  hands  in 
excitement,  and  while  my  eyes  followed  the  man 
I  felt  sure  would  win — my  husband. 

The  herd  was  grazing  in  a  slight  valley  and  did 
not  notice  the  approach  of  the  hunters  until  they 
were  almost  on  them.  Straight  into  the  center  of 
the  throng  of  shaggy  beasts  rode  Cody  and  Corn- 
stock,  separating  the  herd,  Comstock  taking  the 
right  half  and  Cody  the  left.  Then,  as  the  two 
halves  started  in  opposite  directions,  Comstock 
began  firing  as  he  worked  his  way  swiftly  to  the 
rear.  Three  buffalo  dropped.  Will  had  not  fired 
a  shot. 

"Something's  wrong  with  his  gun — something 
must  be  wrong  with  it!  Why  doesn't  he  shoot?" 

The  queries  were  coming  from  all  around  me, 
but  I  only  smiled  to  myself  and  held  Arta  close 
to  me,  to  conceal  the  excitement  I  felt.  Too 
many  times  had  Will  told  me  of  the  plan  he  had 

127 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

formed  for  hunting  buffalo  and  slaying  them  in 
large  numbers — and  I  knew  that  now  he  was 
making  his  arrangements  for  the  carrying  out  of 
exactly  that  method.  Comstock  had  gone  to  the 
rear  of  his  herd  and  was  driving  it,  firing  as  he 
went.  Already  he  was  far  down  the  valley,  leav- 
ing a  string  of  four  more  buffalo  behind.  And 
still  Buffalo  Bill's  gun  was  silent. 

Then  suddenly  came  a  shout  and  pointing 
fingers.  Cody  had  worked  his  way  ahead  of  the 
herd  and  slightly  to  one  side.  Quickly  he 
swerved  and,  riding  straight  past  the  beasts,  fired 
as  quickly  as  his  gun  would  permit  him.  The 
leaders  were  dropped  in  their  tracks,  stopping 
the  rush  of  buffalo  from  behind,  and  causing  the 
whole  herd  to  mill  and  hesitate. 

Just  as  quickly,  Will  circled  again,  and  came 
back  against  the  herd.  Those  were  not  the  days 
of  the  repeating  and  automatic  rifles.  Firing 
was  comparatively  slow.  A  shot,  then  the  gun 
must  be  loaded  again,  and  while  this  was  going 
on,  the  milling  of  the  herd  still  held  the  target  in 
place  and  awaiting  death.  Again  and  again  the 
crack  of  old  "Lucretia  Borgia"  sounded.  Again 
and  again  the  buffalo  dropped,  always  in  a  place 
that  would  impede  the  progress  of  the  herd  and 

128 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

cause  it  to  hesitate  in  its  plunging  rush  as  it 
sought  a  new  avenue  of  escape.  Now  ten  buffalo 
showed  on  the  plains  as  a  result  of  my  husband's 
marksmanship.  The  number  went  to  fifteen,  to 
twenty,  to  twenty-five,  to  thirty,  to  thirty-five,  to 
thirty-six — seven — eight — 

A  wave  of  the  arm.  The  referee's  assistant, 
following  my  husband,  had  called  time.  Three 
miles  away,  where  the  other  assistant  followed 
Comstock,  time  was  being  called  also.  And  when 
the  count  was  made,  it  was  found  that  in  those 
three  miles  of  chasing  the  herd,  Comstock  had 
killed  twenty-three  buffalo,  while  in  a  space  of 
hardly  three  hundred  yards,  Buffalo  Bill  had 
killed  almost  twice  as  many. 

A  short  rest  came  then,  while  from  the  wagons 
came  a  miraculous  thing.  It  was  champagne,  and 
great  hampers  of  dainties,  brought  out  from  St. 
Louis  by  the  rich  excursionists,  and  served  there 
on  the  plains,  with  dead  buffalo  lying  all  about 
— the  dainty  confections  of  the  approximate  East 
in  the  atmosphere  of  the  West. 

An  hour,  then  Cody  and  Comstock  started 
forth  again.  This  time  the  search  was  longer, 
and  the  guns  had  been  booming  for  some  time 
when  the  excursionists  came  in  sight  of  the  hunt- 

129 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ers.  The  herd  had  been  smaller  this  time,  and 
just  as  the  scene  came  into  view,  Will  was  finish- 
ing the  last  three  buffalo  of  his  half,  while  Corn- 
stock  was  vainly  trying  to  prevent  the  remainder 
of  his  herd  from  escaping  him. 

Suddenly  the  herd  swerved,  and  plunged 
straight  at  him  and  his  referee.  Comstock,  by  a 
quick  move,  escaped,  but  the  referee  did  not  have 
the  same  good  fortune.  A  second  later,  white- 
faced  men  and  screaming  women  saw  the  horse 
of  the  referee  lifted  on  the  horns  of  a  great  bull 
buffalo,  tossed  high  into  the  air,  then  dropped, 
writhing  in  its  death  agonies,  while  the  referee, 
dusty  and  limping,  dragged  himself  up  from  the 
spot  where  he  had  been  thrown,  fully  thirty  feet 
away.  Comstock's  run  was  ended — and  we  did 
not  approach  the  hunting  field.  We  had  seen  al- 
most enough. 

However,  there  was  one  more  run  yet  to  come, 
and  with  the  exception  of  some  of  the  St.  Louis 
women  who,  white-faced  and  weak,  returned  to 
the  train,  all  of  us  stayed  to  watch  it.  Will,  with 
his  inevitable  love  of  the  theatrical,  suddenly 
beamed  with  an  inspiration. 

"I  just  think,"  he  announced,  as  he  crammed 
down  a  dainty  sandwich  and  reached  for  another, 

130 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"that  I'll  see  if  I  can't  even  up  this  score  a  little. 
It's  getting  terribly  one  sided." 

"Oh,  don't  sympathize  with  me!"  Billy  Corn- 
stock  was  helping  his  referee,  who  insisted  on  offi- 
ciating again,  in  loosening  up  his  wrenched  ankle, 
"I'll  manage  to  get  along  all  right." 

Will  smiled. 

"Well,  then,  you'll  let  me  have  a  little  enjoy- 
ment for  my  own  sake,  won't  you?" 

"Go  ahead  and  kill  yourself  if  you  want  to," 
came  the  joking  reply  of  his  contestant.  "But 
I'm  going  to  kill  buffalo." 

"So  am  I,"  answered  my  husband.  "But  this 
time  I'm  going  to  do  it  with  a  horse  that  hasn't 
either  a  bridle  or  saddle." 

There  were  gasps  of  astonishment — and  I  be- 
lieve that  the  loudest  came  from  me. 

"Will!"  I  begged,  "please  don't.    Please " 

But  Will  only  grinned  and  patted  my  hand. 

"Shucks,  Mamma,"  he  said,  "Old  Brigham 
knows  more  about  killing  buffalo  than  I  do  my- 
self." 

"But  if  you  should  get  caught  in  the  herd " 

"Old  Brigham  will  get  me  out  again." 

And  while  the  crowd — and  that  included  my- 
self— waited  excitedly,  Will  quietly  removed  the 

131 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

bridle  and  saddle  from  Brigham,  and  calmly 
examined  his  rifle. 

Meanwhile,  scouts  showed  on  the  horizon,  with 
the  information  that  a  small  herd  of  buffalo 
had  been  sighted  about  four  miles  away,  coming 
in  this  direction.  A  leap  and  Cody  was  on  Brig- 
ham's  back.  Comstock  reached  his  horse  and 
mounted  it.  The  referees  took  their  places  and 
the  hunters  were  gone;  the  excursionists,  their 
wagons  bumping  along  the  road,  following  as  fast 
as  they  could.  As  for  myself,  the  wagon  seemed 
fairly  to  crawl.  My  husband,  riding  without 
saddle  and  without  bridle,  guiding  his  horse  only 
by  oral  commands,  was  fading  farther  and 
farther  in  the  distance,  while,  like  some  prisoner 
going  to  an  execution,  I  was  following,  perhaps 
to  see  him  killed  or  maimed.  Yet  I  wanted  to  be 
there — if  accident  should  happen,  I  could  at  least 
be  near  him,  at  least  be  where  he  could  speak  to 
me  and  I  to  him. 

The  slow  ascent  of  a  long  hill — then  the 
wagons  leaped  forward  with  a  rush.  Far  down 
in  the  valley,  the  two  hunters  were  galloping  to- 
ward the  herd,  to  separate  them  and  to  start  their 
"runs."  I  looked  for  Will — he  was  slightly  in 
the  lead,  Old  Brigham  carrying  him  swiftly  and 

132 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

safely  forward  toward  the  objects  of  the  hunt. 

A  sudden  blurring  as  the  two  horsemen  struck 
the  herd,  to  be  lost  to  sight  for  a  moment.  Then 
Comstock  showed,  turning  his  half  of  the  herd 
and  driving  it  before  him,  while  he  struggled  to 
urge  his  tired  horse  to  enough  speed  to  reach  a 
sure  shooting  distance.  I  strained  my  eyes,  but 
for  a  moment  I  could  not  see  Will.  My  heart 
seemed  to  stop  beating.  My  hands,  tight  clasped, 
were  cold  and  wet  and  lifeless. 

Then  a  cry  of  gladness  came  to  my  lips.  Out 
from  the  side  of  the  herd,  where  he  had  almost 
been  lying  on  his  horse's  back  to  conceal  his  pres- 
ence from  the  buffalo  at  the  rear,  shot  Will  and 
Brigham,  swinging  far  in  front  of  the  plunging 
beasts,  then  suddenly  turning.  The  thudding  pop 
of  a  rifle  sounded  from  far  away,  and  we  saw  the 
buffalo  pile  up  as  they  stumbled  and  plunged 
over  the  body  of  a  fallen  comrade;  stop,  wheel 
and  start  in  another  direction. 

But  Cody  was  there  before  them.  Old  Brig- 
ham,  bridleless  though  he  might  be,  was  working 
at  the  best  game  he  knew,  a  game  he  had  played 
practically  all  of  his  equine  life,  and  he  needed 
few  orders.  My  fears  departed.  The  worst  was 
over,  the  herd  had  been  reached  and  separated. 

133 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Now  it  was  only  a  matter  of  keeping  out  of  the 
way  of  the  stragglers  or  the  wounded.  And  the 
wounded  were  few  when  Will  Cody  shot.  His 
game  usually  dropped  in  its  tracks.  More  and 
more  excited  I  became  as  I  saw  Will  circle  his 
half  of  the  herd  and  drop  two  more.  Only  ten 
were  left  now — the  herd  probably  had  been  a  part 
of  that  hunted  earlier  in  the  day — and  I  turned 
to  the  watchers  with  a  new  confidence. 

"My  husband  will  kill  every  one  of  them!"  I 
prophesied.  And  my  opinion  was  correct. 

One  after  another  they  fell,  until  only  one  was 
left,  a  great  shaggy  bull  which  plunged  forward 
with  a  speed  that  equaled  Brigham's,  and  which 
seemed  intent  on  coming  straight  toward  usl 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  approached,  with  Cody 
hurrying  along  in  the  rear.  The  half  mile  less- 
ened to  a  quarter,  then  to  an  eighth,  while  nerv- 
ousness began  to  make  its  appearance  every- 
where, and  while  Cody  still  raced  along  on  Brig- 
ham,  his  rifle  hanging  loose  in  his  hand,  his  eyes 
intent  on  the  buffalo.  Suddenly  fear  appeared. 

"Why  doesn't  he  shoot?" 

Some  one  asked  the  question  spasmodically. 
Immediately  panic  began  to  reach  the  brains  of 
the  spectators. 

134. 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Maybe  he's  out  of  ammunition.    Mayl 

The  buffalo  was  only  a  few  hundred  yards 
away  now.  Women  were  screaming,  men  help- 
ing them  into  the  wagons.  Others  were  running. 
But  I  stood  in  my  position  and  laughed.  I  knew 
that  Will  Cody  would  have  headed  off  that 
buffalo  and  started  it  in  another  direction  if  there 
had  been  danger.  I  was  there  and  Arta  was 
there,  laughing  and  clapping  her  hands  as  she 
watched  her  father  race  after  the  plunging  bison. 

The  hundred  yards  or  so  changed  to  a  hundred 
feet,  while  spectators  screamed  and  shouted. 
Then,  just  as  the  buffalo  headed  straight  toward 
the  wagons,  Will  Cody  raised  his  rifle  and  fired. 
The  beast  leaped  high  into  the  air.  Its  heavy, 
shaggy  shoulders  seemed  to  unbalance  its  body. 
It  somersaulted,  rolled,  struggled  a  moment,  then 
lay  still  in  death,  at  the  very  tongue  of  the  first 
wagon. 

Meanwhile,  far  in  the  distance,  the  forms  of 
Billy  Comstock  and  his  referee  showed  them- 
selves, coming  back  after  a  wild  chase.  His 
buffalo  had  scattered,  with  the  result  that  from 
his  end  of  the  herd  he  had  been  able  tc  kill  only 
five,  while  my  husband  had  added  thirteen  more 
to  his  score,  making  a  total  of  sixty-nine  against 

135 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Comstock's  forty-six,  and  adding  a  new  record 
to  the  name  of  Buffalo  Bill. 

That  night,  in  Fort  Sheridan,  Will  and  I  sat 
in  our  room  in  the  hotel.  He  had  Arta  on  his  lap 
and  was  fondling  her  and  chucking  her  under  the 
chin,  his  big  voice  booming,  his  every  action  as 
fresh  and  bright  as  though  the  killing  of  sixty- 
nine  buffalo  in  a  day  was  nothing  more  than  a  bit 
of  morning  exercise.  Suddenly,  as  with  a  sudden 
thought,  he  looked  up. 

"Mamma,"  he  said,  "how  do  you  like  being 
Mrs.  Buffalo  Bill?" 

"Land  sakes,  Will,"  I  answered  him,  "what- 
ever made  you  ask  that  question?  You  know  I'm 
as  happy  as  a  bug  in  a  rug." 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  he  bantered,  "but  I  mean 
the  'Buffalo  Bill'  part." 

"Fine,"  I  said,  "but  why  did  you  ask?" 

"Oh,"  he  joked,  "I  just  happened  to  think  that 
you  can't  very  well  be  Mrs.  Buffalo  Bill  without 
being  able  to  say  that  you've  killed  a  buffalo." 

"You  mean  for  me  to  kill  a  buffalo?  Well! 
I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to." 

"Huh?  What's  that?"  Will  had  straightened. 
I  had  known  that  he  had  expected  me  to  be 
afraid.  And  so  I  had  just  taken  the  opposite 

136 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

angle.  "You  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  kill  a 
buffalo?" 

"If  my  husband  can  kill  them,  I  can  too." 

"Well,  I'm  a  son  of  a  sea  cook!  By  golly" — 
he  let  out  a  roaring  laugh  and  jiggled  Arta  high 
in  the  air — "I'm  just  going  to  see  whether  you'll 
be  afraid  or  not.  Want  to  go  along,  Arta? 
'Course  you  do!  I'll  strap  you  right  on  your 
mother's  lap  and  let  you  take  part  in  the 
festivities  too!  That's  what!  How's  to-mor- 
row?" he  asked  turning  to  me.  "Think  you'd 
kind  of  like  to  take  a  little  buffalo  hunt  in  the 
morning?" 

"I — I "  The  denial  was  on  my  lips,  but 

I  checked  it.  I  had  gone  this  far  and  there  was 
no  turning  back.  I  smiled,  as  though  the  killing 
of  a  buffalo  were  nothing  in  the  world.  "Why 
certainly.  Just  any  time  you  want  to  go,  Will, 
I'd  be  delighted!" 

"You— would?" 

"I'd  just  love  it!" 

But  when  bedtime  came  and  the  lights  were  out 
and  I  should  have  been  asleep,  I  was  wide-eyed 
and  staring  into  the  darkness,  watching  imagi- 
nary buffalo  herds  as  they  circled  about  and 
plunged  toward  me,  their  great  shaggy  shoulders 

137 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

rocking  and  bounding,  their  heavy  heads  lowered 
and  menacing.  I  tried  to  sleep — but  sleep  was 
impossible.  In  the  morning,  I  was  going  to  hunt 
buffalo,  with  my  baby  strapped  on  my  lap.  And 
I  didn't  like  that  part  of  it. 

Will  awoke  early  the  next  morning,  but  I  was 
up  before  him,  cleaning  my  revolver  which  I  had 
dragged  out  of  my  trunk,  and  wishing  for  the 
time  to  start.  Now  that  I  was  into  it,  I  wanted 
to  get  it  over  just  as  quickly  as  possible.  As  for 
Will- 

"What've  you  got  in  your  mind,  anyway?"  he 
asked  as  he  stopped  and  watched  me. 

"Killing  buffalo,"  I  told  him,  and  smiled. 

Whereupon  he  chuckled  and  walked  away, 
picking  up  Arta  as  he  went  along,  and  carrying 
her  on  his  shoulder.  At  last  he  turned. 

"Are  you  really  serious?"  he  grinned. 

"Are  you?"  I  countered,  laughingly.  Daylight 
had  brought  me  a  good  deal  more  courage. 

"Well,  I  asked  you  first." 

"And  I  asked  you." 

So  there  things  stood.  Will  chuckled  again, 
lowered  Arta  from  her  exalted  position,  and 
started  for  the  door. 

"By  golly,"  he  said  with  one  of  his  sudden  re- 
188 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

solves,  "I  just  believe  you're  gritty  enough  to  do 
it!  And  I'll  be  darned  if  I  ain't  going  to  see  if 
you  will !  Trot  down  to  breakfast,  while  I  go  get 
the  horses." 

A  half  hour  later  we  were  making  our  way  out 
of  town  and  toward  the  broad  stretches  of  the 
plains.  I  was  riding  Brigham,  with  a  side-saddle, 
and  Arta  had  been  strapped  securely  to  my  lap 
with  broad  straps  which  went  around  the  hooks 
of  the  saddle  and  then  about  my  waist.  At  my 
side  hung  my  big  revolver,  one  that  Will  had 
given  me  after  I  had  demonstrated  my  ability  to 
use  it.  And  strangely  enough,  many  of  my  ap- 
prehensions had  vanished.  I  was  on  Old  Brig- 
ham,  and  I  knew  that  my  sole  task  would  be  to 
fire  the  shot  with  the  proper  aim  behind  it.  Brig- 
ham  would  do  all  the  necessary  thinking  and 
maneuvering. 

However,  the  nearness  of  the  hunt  was  begin- 
ning to  have  the  opposite  effect  on  Will.  When 
we  had  started  from  town,  he  was  laughing  and 
joking  and  whistling,  but  now  as  we  neared  the 
buffalo  grounds,  he  became  more  and  more  seri- 
ous. Suddenly  he  started,  and  raised  in  his 
saddle. 

"Buffalo,"  he  said  shortly. 
139 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

A  thrill  went  through  me,  but  strangely 
enough,  it  was  not  the  thrill  of  fear.  I  suppose 
there  is  something  about  the  hunt  which  gets  into 
one's  blood — for  years,  several  years,  at  least,  I 
had  lived  in  the  atmosphere  of  it,  hearing  about 
the  exciting  adventures,  about  the  plunging 
beasts  and  the  zest  of  it  all  without  absorbing  it. 
But  now  I  was  at  the  very  edge  of  that  excite- 
ment myself,  and  it  was  like  wine  in  my  veins.  I 
reached  to  my  holster  to  assure  myself  of  the 
presence  of  my  revolver.  Then  I  called  to  Will : 

"I'm  ready  whenever  you  are." 

"You're  sure  you're  not  afraid?"  he  asked 
quickly. 

"Honestly,  Will.  I — I  was  last  night.  I  was 
just  joking  when  it  all  started,  and  I  was  scared 
to  death  last  night.  But  now — honestly,  Will,  I 
want  to  see  if  I  can  kill  a  buffalo." 

He  rode  close  to  me  and  leaned  and  kissed  Arta 
and  myself. 

"You're  absolutely  sure?" 

"Absolutely,"  I  answered. 

"All  right,  then,"  came  his  reply.  "You'll  be 
safe.  There's  very  little  danger  unless  you  get 
rattled  and  lose  your  head.  Let  Brigham  handle 
the  situation  and  don't  try  to  ride  him  any  place 

140 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

he  doesn't  want  to  go.  Keep  your  whole  mind 
centered  on  shooting.  And  remember  to  put  the 
bullet  right  under  the  left  shoulder." 

"I'll  remember,"  I  said. 

We  started  forward.  A  mile  further  and  we 
approached  the  buffalo  herd  which  was  grazing 
and  paying  little  attention  to  our  approach.  Will 
swerved  to  me  again. 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  hunt  the  whole  herd. 
I'll  scatter  them  and  bring  some  toward  you.  All 
right.  Pronto!" 

Our  horses  leaped  forward  and  we  sped  to  the 
herd.  A  few  hundred  feet  away  from  the  bison 
Will  sped  ahead  of  me  and  drove  his  horse 
straight  into  the  mass  of  shaggy  beasts.  They 
split  and  fled,  while  Will  cut  out  four  or  five  and 
began  to  circle  them  toward  me.  Then  he  waved 
his  arm,  the  signal  for  me  to  begin  my  hunt. 

My  heart  was  pounding  like  a  triphammer. 
The  whole  world  was  hazy — hazy  except  for 
those  plunging  buffalo,  upon  which  my  every  at- 
tention was  centered.  I  knew  what  to  do — Will 
was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  beasts,  his  rifle 
ready  for  an  instant  shot  should  anything  go 
wrong,  his  horse  keeping  pace  with  the  fleeing 
animals,  his  eyes  watching  their  every  movement. 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

I  gave  the  word  to  Brigham  and  while  Arta, 
strapped  to  my  lap,  laughed  and  gurgled  and 
clapped  her  little  hands,  we  galloped  forward. 
One  great,  heavy,  humped  buffalo  had  moved  out 
a  few  yards  from  the  rest  of  the  stragglers,  and 
Will  waved  an  arm  to  me  to  indicate  that  this 
was  the  one  I  should  down.  I  turned  Brigham 
toward  him,  and  the  chase  began. 

For  nearly  a  mile  we  raced,  gradually  cutting 
down  the  distance  between  the  buffalo  and  my- 
self. Then  slowly  we  began  to  overtake  him. 

Only  a  few  rods  separated  us,  and  I  raised  my 
revolver  as  though  to  fire.  But  Will  anxiously 
waved  me  down. 

"Closer!"  I  could  not  hear  the  word,  but  I 
could  see  his  lips  as  he  framed  it.  Even  Old 
Brigham  seemed  to  understand  that  I  was  about 
to  make  a  mistake,  for  he  suddenly  plunged  for- 
ward with  a  new  speed,  cutting  down  the  dis- 
tance between  the  speeding  bison  and  myself. 
Soon  the  distance  was  cut  in  two.  Now  to  a 
third.  Again  I  raised  my  revolver,  and  this  time 
Will  did  not  object.  There  was  a  puff  of  smoke, 
the  booming  of  the  heavy  gun,  and  then- 
Then,  with  a  thrill  that  I  never  again  shall 
know,  I  saw  the  buffalo  stumble,  stagger  a  sec- 

142 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ond  and  fall  headlong.  From  behind  came  a 
wild  sound,  and  I  saw  Will  standing  in  his  stir- 
rups and  whooping  like  a  wild  Indian. 

"You  got  him,  Mamma,"  he  shouted.  "I  knew 
you  could  do  it — knew  it  all  the  time!" 

As  for  Arta,  she  was  laughing  and  patting 
her  little  hands  and  having  the  time  of  her  young 
life,  while  I — well,  I  must  confess  that  I  laughed 
a  little  hysterically  and  that  my  hand  was  shak- 
ing as  though  with  a  chill.  I  had  killed  my 
buffalo  and  with  the  first  shot.  Will  sent  his 
horse  plunging  to  my  side. 

"Don't  stop  with  one,"  he  called  to  me,  "make 
a  record  for  yourself.  Let's  go  after  the  rest  of 
them." 

I  agreed,  and  once  more  Old  Brigham  broke 
into  a  gallop,  as  Will  and  I  started  after  the 
other  stragglers  of  the  herd.  Soon  we  were 
abreast  of  another,  and  once  more  my  revolver 
was  raised. 

But  this  time  my  aim  was  unsteady.  I  still 
was  nervous  from  the  excitement  of  the  first  kill- 
ing, and  the  gun  would  not  hold  true.  Here  and 
there  it  bobbed  while  I,  seeking  to  steady  my  aim, 
let  second  after  second  pass.  Vaguely  I  heard 
a  voice  shouting: 

143 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Shoot— shoot!" 

I  pulled  the  trigger,  and  then  cried  out  with 
happiness.  For  again  a  buffalo  had  plunged  and 
tumbled,  to  paw  uncertainly  at  the  ground,  then 
lay  still.  Proudly  I  turned  to  Will. 

"I  guess  that's  pretty  good  shooting,"  I  said 
haughtily.  My  husband's  lips  began  to  spread  in 
a  wide  grin. 

"Certainly  is,"  he  agreed.  "Some  of  the  best 
shooting  I  ever  did  in  my  life." 

"That  you  ever  did?" 

"Uh-huh,"  came  his  solemn  answer.  "I  had 
to  time  it  pretty  well  to  make  it  fit  right  in  with 
your  shot,  but  I  did  it.  Yes,  sir,  that's  pretty 
good  shooting,  if  I  do  say  it  myself." 

I  stared. 

"Why,  Will  Cody,"  I  asked,  "what  on  earth 
are  you  talking  about." 

"Killin'  buffalo,"  he  answered.  "You  see,  I 
could  tell  from  the  way  that  shooting  iron  was 
wobbling  around  in  your  hand  that  you  were 
liable  to  make  a  miss.  And  I  knew  that  if  you 
did  that,  you'd  probably  wound  that  old  bull  just 
enough  to  make  him  rambunctious.  So,  when 
you  shot,  I  shot  too,  just  to  make  things  sure. 

144 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

And  by  golly,  from  the  looks  of  things,  I  was 
right." 

We  were  at  the  side  of  the  dead  buffalo  now, 
and  I  could  see  the  blood  still  flowing  from  two 
wounds.  One  was  a  jagged,  rough  affair,  below 
his  neck,  where  the  bullet  from  my  revolver  had 
torn  its  way  along,  just  under  the  skin,  doing 
nothing  more  than  to  make  an  ugly  flesh  wound. 
The  other  hole  was  clean  and  sharp,  driving 
under  the  left  shoulder  and  in  a  position  to  pierce 
the  heart.  Will  grinned  again. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  Mamma,"  he  chuckled, 
"we  ain't  such  a  bad  team,  are  we?" 

But  my  reputation  as  a  buffalo  huntress  had 
been  tarnished  and  I  said  so.  Will  was  for  going 
home,  but  I  wanted  another  chance — and  he  gave 
it  to  me.  The  main  herd  of  bison  had  stopped 
its  flight  about  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  and  we 
rode  toward  it,  this  time  attacking  the  whole 
herd,  Will  riding  just  a  few  feet  behind  me  on 
the  inside,  next  to  the  plunging  animals,  and 
ready  at  any  moment  to  protect  me  with  a  quick 
shot,  in  case  of  accident. 

But  this  time  I  needed  no  help.  I  had  re- 
loaded my  revolver,  and,  riding  close  to  the  herd, 
fired  at  the  nearest  animal.  It  dropped.  Then, 

145 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

as  the  bison  behind  it  hesitated  at  the  sight  of  the 
toppling  beast  before  it,  I  fired  again.  This  time 
the  shot  went  slightly  wide  of  its  mark,  and  I 
pulled  the  trigger  twice  more  before  the  animal 
could  turn  to  plunge  at  me.  It  also  fell.  Then, 
as  the  herd  went  milling  away,  I  restored  my  gun 
to  its  holster. 

"There,"  I  said  proudly,  "I  guess  that  vindi- 
cates Mrs.  Buffalo  Bill." 

"It  sure  does!"  Will  agreed  happily.  "I'm 
kind  of  thinking  of  taking  a  few  weeks'  vacation 
and  letting  you  do  the  hunting  for  the  family!" 

But  it  was  I  who  took  the  vacation,  for,  while 
I  had  greatly  improved  physically,  both  Will  and 
myself  knew  that  a  further  rest  back  in  St.  Louis 
would  do  me  no  harm. 

More  than  that,  the  Kansas  Pacific  was  build- 
ing farther  and  farther  west  every  day.  There 
were  few  accommodations  now  and  it  would  have 
meant  a  life  of  camping  on  the  plains,  with  the 
accompanying  dangers  of  Indian  attacks,  were  I 
to  remain  with  Will.  Not  that  I  would  have 
feared  these  risks  to  have  remained  with  my  hus- 
band— but  both  Will  and  myself  had  something 
else  to  consider — Arta,  the  baby.  And  when 
there  was  no  necessity,  we  felt  that  we  should  not 

146 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

face  the  danger.  So  the  baby  and  myself  went 
back  to  St.  Louis,  to  wait  until  my  husband 
should  finish  the  contract  which  had  given  him 
his  title,  that  of  Buffalo  Bill. 

The  conclusion  of  this  took  nearly  six  months 
longer,  with  the  result  that  in  May,  1868,  Will 
ended  his  career  as  a  professional  buffalo  hunter, 
after  having  killed,  with  the  rifle,  4,280  bison  in 
a  space  of  about  eighteen  months.  And  when  I 
look  back  upon  it,  I  cannot  help  reflecting  how 
things  have  changed  in  this  country  of  ours,  how 
the  waste  of  yesterday  has  given  way  before  the 
enforced  economy  of  to-day — and  how  much 
might  have  been  saved  to  this  generation  if  the 
West  had  only  known  and  understood  that  the 
glorious  days  of  plenty  would  not  last  forever. 

Of  those  4,280  buffalo  which  Will  killed,  only 
the  humps  and  hind-quarters  were  used,  the  rest 
of  the  bodies,  with  the  exception  of  the  heads, 
being  left  to  rot  on  the  plains.  The  heads  Will 
always  took  in  to  the  Kansas  Pacific,  where  they 
were  forwarded  to  a  taxidermist  for  distribution 
throughout  the  country.  And  to-day,  when  you 
look  upon  the  great,  shaggy  head  of  a  buffalo  in 
the  railroad  offices  of  the  lines  which  succeeded 
the  Kansas  Pacific  Railroad,  you  are  looking  on 

147 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  head  of  one  of  the  victims  of  old  "Lucretia 
Borgia,"  for  my  husband,  Buffalo  Bill,  furnished 
practically  every  one  of  those  souvenirs  of  the 
West. 

As  for  the  parts  of  the  bison  that  were  left  to 
rot.  ...  A  buffalo  rarely  weighed  less  than 
1,000  pounds,  in  edible  meat.  Of  this,  less  than 
a  third  was  taken  for  the  consumption  of  the 
laborers  on  the  Kansas  Pacific.  That  meant,  out 
of  the  hunting  that  my  husband  alone  did  in 
those  eighteen  months,  nearly  three  million 
pounds  of  meat  was  left  on  the  plains.  And  only 
a  half  hour  ago  my  butcher  coolly  informed  me 
that  steaks  had  taken  another  jump,  and  that  my 
favorite  cut  would  henceforth  cost  55  cents  a 
pound! 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEN  the  contract  with  the  Kansas  Pacific 
ended,  Will  resumed  his  vocation  as  a  scout,  this 
time  serving  under  General  Sheridan  in  his  cam- 
paigns against  the  Indians  in  Western  Kansas, 
Colorado  and  even  in  what  is  now  New  Mexico.. 
Arta  and  I,  of  course,  were  in  St.  Louis,  and 
there  remained,  while  I  gained  strength  and 
health  for  what  was  to  be  one  of  the  really 
strenuous  periods  of  my  life.  But  that  comes 
later. 

It  was  during  the  few  months  which  Will 
served  under  Sheridan  that  he  made  the  ride  that 
won  him  fame  through  the  West  as  a  dispatch 
bearer  and  a  man  who  could  stand  the  utmost 
amount  of  fatigue  without  giving  way  beneath  it. 
Letters,  which  long  ago  became  yellowed  and 
brittle  with  age,  told  me  the  progressive  story  of 
that  ride,  letters  which  I  read  in  the  shade  of  the 
old  trees  that  fringed  the  street  in  front  of  my 
home  in  old  St.  Louis,  and  which  caused  me  to 
thrill  with  a  homesickness  for  the  West.  For  I 

149 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

was  a  Western  woman  now  as  I  never  had  been 
before.  I  was  growing  strong  and  healthy,  and 
I  wanted  the  West.  I  wanted  to  feel  the  spring 
of  a  horse  beneath  me,  the  thrill  of  danger — yes, 
even  the  horror  of  fear,  for  that  had  become  a 
part  of  my  life.  So,  I  waited  for  those  letters 
as  one  would  wait  for  the  installments  of  a  thrill- 
ing novel.  And  they  had  an  unusual  story  of 
bravery  and  stamina  to  tell. 

It  was  just  after  an  encounter  with  Indian 
warriors  under  Old  Santanta,  a  vicious  Kiowa 
chief,  that  my  husband  rode  into  Fort  Larned, 
Kansas,  to  learn  that  Captain  Parker,  the  com- 
manding officer,  had  been  seeking  him  anxiously 
to  carry  some  messages  to  General  Sheridan, 
then  in  Fort  Hays.  The  country  was  full  of  In- 
dians, fugitives  from  the  Camp  of  Santanta, 
which  had  been  broken  up  by  the  soldiers  and 
scouts  under  Will's  command,  and  the  ride  meant 
danger.  However,  Will  took  the  dispatches, 
slowly  worked  his  way  through  the  Indian  coun- 
try, rode  straight  into  an  Indian  camp  in  the 
darkness,  stampeded  the  horses  that  were  tethered 
there,  got  out  again  before  the  savages  could  as- 
semble enough  horseflesh  to  pursue  him,  and  at 
break  of  day  delivered  the  messages  personally 

150 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

to  General  Sheridan  at  Fort  Hays.  Then  he 
rode  over  to  the  Perry  Hotel,  where  formerly  we 
had  lived,  took  a  nap  of  two  hours  and  reported 
back  to  the  General. 

General  Sheridan  in  the  meanwhile  had  found 
the  necessity  for  sending  some  dispatches  to 
Dodge  City,  ninety  miles  away.  These  Will 
volunteered  to  take,  and  within  an  hour  was  in 
the  saddle  and  away  again.  At  ten  o'clock  that 
night  he  reached  the  fort,  and  delivered  his  mes- 
sages to  the  commanding  officer,  only  to  learn  that 
there  had  been  fresh  Indian  outbreaks  on  the 
Arkansas  River  between  Fort  Dodge  and  Fort 
Larned,  about  sixty-five  miles  away  and  that 
other  scouts  had  been  reluctant  to  carry  the  mes- 
sages because  of  the  dangers  attendant  on  the 
ride.  Cody  asked  for  a  few  hours  for  rest,  then 
he  reported  to  the  commanding  officer  that  he 
was  ready  to  make  the  ride,  and  that  all  he  wanted 
was  a  fresh  horse. 

But  there  were  no  fresh  horses  available.  The 
only  thing  that  the  post  could  offer  was  a  gov- 
ernment mule.  Will  took  him,  jogging  out  of 
the  fort  and  urging  the  tough-mouthed  old  beast 
along  as  fast  as  he  could — which  was  hardly  ex- 
press speed.  Everything  went  well,  however, 

151 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

until  Will  reached  Coon  Creek,  about  thirty-five 
miles  from  Fort  Larned,  where  he  dismounted 
and  led  the  mule  down  to  the  stream  to  drink. 
As  he  did  so,  the  contrary  old  government 
animal  jerked  away  from  Will,  showed  the  first 
burst  of  speed  since  the  start  at  Fort  Dodge,  and 
ran  down  the  valley.  Will  followed,  hoping  that 
he  would  stop — but  there  was  no  stopping  for 
that  mule.  Finally  he  got  back  on  the  road  again 
and  started  a  jogging  trot  toward  Fort  Larned, 
while  Will  trailed  along  in  the  rear.  And  that 
procession  kept  up  through  the  night,  Will  walk- 
ing the  thirty-five  miles,  with  the  sight  of  a  riding 
animal  always  just  before  him,  but  always  out  of 
reach. 

Will,  when  he  got  really  and  truly  angry, 
didn't  have  the  sweetest  temper  in  the  world. 
And  by  the  time  the  sun  rose,  he  was  just  about 
ten  degrees  higher  than  fever  heat  in  his  attitude 
toward  that  mule.  Suddenly,  the  soldiers  in 
Fort  Larned  heard  the  sound  of  a  shot  about  a 
half  mile  away.  Then  another  and  another  and 
another.  When  they  reached  the  place  where  the 
shooting  had  occurred,  they  found  Will  standing 
over  a  dead  mule,  cussing  energetically. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "there's  the  toughest,  mean- 
152 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

est  mule  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  He  made  me 
walk  all  night  and  I  decided  that  he  wouldn't 
ever  do  that  to  another  fellow.  So  I  executed 
him,  and  I'll  be  jiggered  if  it  didn't  take  six 
shots  to  make  him  stop  kicking!" 

Will  delivered  his  messages,  hut  his  work  was 
not  yet  over.  There  were  rush  dispatches  to  go 
back  to  General  Sheridan  at  Fort  Hays  and  the 
next  morning  Will  rode  into  the  General's  office 
and  presented  them,  after  having  ridden,  horse- 
back and  muleback,  and  walked,  three  hundred 
and  fifty-five  miles  in  fifty-eight  hours,  and  with 
practically  no  rest.  And  all  of  this  following  a 
day  and  a  night  in  the  saddle  during  the  trailing 
of  Santanta's  Indian  band  and  the  battle  which 
followed!  Is  it  any  wonder,  therefore,  when  I 
look  back  upon  such  accomplishments  as  this,  that 
I  feel  a  pride  in  having  been  the  wife  of  Buffalo 
Bill,  an  honor  that  can  be  equaled  by  few  women 
in  the  world? 

By  this  time  Will  had  the  rank  of  Colonel,  and 
was  chief  of  scouts  wherever  he  served.  It  was 
not  long  until  he  was  transferred  by  General 
Sheridan  to  the  Fifth  Cavalry,  under  Brevet 
Major  General  E.  A.  Carr,  as  the  chief  of  scouts, 
in  the  campaign  of  that  regiment  against  the 

153 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Dog  Soldiers,"  a  group  of  renegade  Indians 
that  was  wandering  about  the  country,  destroying 
settlements  and  killing  pioneers  throughout  the 
entire  Western  district  of  Kansas.  A  winter 
campaign  was  made,  then  one  in  the  summer,  and 
it  was  during  this  time  that  the  battle  of  Sum- 
mit Springs  occurred. 

Back  in  old  St.  Louis  I  picked  up  the  paper 
one  morning,  to  see  the  name  of  "Buffalo  Bill" 
staring  at  me  from  the  headlines.  There  had 
been  a  terrific  battle  in  the  West,  a  great  Indian 
camp  had  been  attacked  by  General  Carr's  com- 
mand, just  after  the  discovery  had  been  made 
by  Buffalo  Bill  of  the  burning  of  a  wagon  train. 
Tracks  had  been  seen  leading  away  in  the  sand, 
which  showed  that  the  Indians  had  captured  two 
white  women  and  that  they  were  being  taken  to 
the  Sioux  camp.  The  Fifth  Cavalry  had  fol- 
lowed, an  attack  had  been  made,  and  one  of  the 
women,  a  Mrs.  Weichel,  the  wife  of  a  Swedish 
settler,  had  been  rescued.  The  other,  Mrs.  Al- 
derdice,  had  been  killed  by  the  squaw  of  the  In- 
dian chief,  Tall  Bull. 

And,  according  to  the  story  in  the  newspaper, 
the  rescue  of  Mrs.  Weichel  had  been  thrilling. 
Tall  Bull  had  her  by  her  hair,  and  was  just  rais- 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ing  his  tomahawk,  when  there  suddenly  sounded 
the  rush  of  hoofs  and  the  banging  of  a  gun  in  the 
hands  of  Buffalo  Bill,  with  the  result  that  an- 
other renegade  had  traveled  to  the  happy  hunt- 
ing grounds. 

So  much  for  the  story  in  the  newspaper.  Just 
the  other  day  I  picked  up  a  history  of  the  West, 
and  there  again  read  the  account  of  that  rescue 
and  the  blood-chilling  killing  of  Tall  Bull.  But 
sometimes,  even  history  can  be  wrong.  For  in- 
stance  

It  was  not  long  afterward  that  I  heard  the 
booming  of  a  big  voice  and  I  rushed  out  of  the 
house,  followed  by  Arta,  to  the  embrace  of  my 
husband's  great,  strong  arms. 

"Got  a  month's  leave,"  he  announced. 
"Couldn't  stay  away  any  longer,  Lou.  And 
what's  more,  I've  got  big  news!  We're  going  to 
have  a  home !" 

But  I  could  only  stare  at  him.  It  was  my  hus- 
band, and  yet  it  was  not  my  husband.  Where 
the  close  cropped  hair  had  been  were  long,  flow- 
ing curls  now.  A  mustache  weaved  its  way  out- 
ward from  his  upper  lip,  while  a  small  goatee 
showed  black  and  spot-like  on  his  chin.  Even  the 

155 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

news  of  a  home-to-be  could  not  take  away  the 
astonishment. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  done,  Will?"  I 
asked. 

"Just  grown  whiskers  and  a  little  hair,"  he  an- 
nounced. "Like  it?" 

"It  isn't  a  bit  becoming,"  I  said  with  a  woman's 
air  of  appraisal.  "What  on  earth  did  you  grow 
it  for?" 

"Why,  I  had  to,"  he  explained  boyishly.  "It's 
the  fashion  out  West  now.  You're  not  a  regular 
scout  unless  you've  got  this  sort  of  a  rigout." 

He  pointed  generally  to  himself,  and  I  noticed 
the  beaded  buckskin  coat,  the  leggins  and  beaded 
cuffs.  But  I  had  seen  all  that  before.  It  was 
the  arrangement  of  hair  that  had  stunned  me — 
there  was  a  womanish  something  about  it  all. 
Perhaps  I  had  been  too  long  in  St.  Louis. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  it's  very  becoming,"  I  ob- 
jected again.  Will  appeared  pained. 

"If — if  you  don't  like  it,  Lou,"  he  said  lugubri- 
ously, "I'll  cut  it  off.  Only— only  I'd  be  kind  of 
out  of  place  with  the  boys,  and " 

I  had  caught  the  disappointment  in  his  eyes, 
and  was  laughing. 

"Oh,  go  on,  Will,"  I  prevaricated,  "I  was  just 
156 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

fooling  you  to  see  what  you'd  say.  I  really 
think  it's  quite  nice." 

"Honest?"   He  brightened. 

"Of  course  I  do.  I  wouldn't  have  you  cut  it 
off  for  the  world!" 

And  if  I  could  have  looked  ahead  into  the  years 
that  were  to  follow,  when  that  long  hair  was  to 
turn  to  white,  when  that  goatee  and  mustache 
and  countenance  were  to  be  known  to  every  boy 
and  girl  throughout  the  United  States,  and  a 
great  share  of  the  world,  there  would  have  been 
a  great  deal  more  of  sincerity  in  that  sentence. 
I'm  afraid  that  even  with  the  stories  of  his 
prowess  on  the  plains,  Buffalo  Bill  would  not 
have  been  Buffalo  Bill  without  that  long  hair, 
without  that  mustache  and  that  little  goatee — at 
least,  he  would  not  have  been  the  unusual  ap- 
pearing character  that  he  was,  nor  would  he 
have  been  as  handsome.  And  sometimes,  as  I 
look  at  his  picture  now — and  long  for  the  time 
when  I  can  be  with  him  again — I  shudder  a  little 
at  the  thought  of  what  a  woman's  whim  might 
have  done. 

As  for  Will  and  myself,  the  subject  of 
coiffures  was  quickly  lost  in  the  news  he  had 
brought.  He  was  going  to  be  sent  to  Fort  Me- 

157 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Pherson,  to  be  stationed  permanently  there  as 
long  as  he  desired.  He  still  was  to  carry  the 
title  and  rank  of  Colonel,  and  already  the  sol- 
diers were  building  a  little  log  cabin,  just  outside 
the  fort,  which  was  to  be  our  home.  Before  long, 
I  could  again  turn  my  face  toward  the  West,  this 
time  to  stay. 

It  was  during  this  visit  that  I  got  out  the  news- 
paper which  told  the  story  of  the  battle  of  Sum- 
mit Springs  and  of  the  killing  of  Tall  Bull. 

"I'm  terribly  proud  of  that/'  I  said  as  I  showed 
him  the  clipping.  Will  read,  then  that  amused 
grin  came  to  his  lips. 

"Only  one  trouble  with  it,"  he  told  me  at  last, 
"and  that  is  that  I  didn't  do  any  rescuing.  But, 
Lou,  I  sure  did  get  a  wonderful  horse!" 

"But  what's  the  horse  got  to  do  with  the  kill- 
ing of  Tall  Bull?" 

"Well,  just  about  everything  in  the  world. 
I'm  not  going  to  work  myself  half  to  death  to 
kill  an  Injun  just  for  the  fun  of  it.  You  see, 
after  I'd  found  those  footprints  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  we  made  an  attack  on  the  camp  and  all 
the  Injuns  ran  away.  Well,  we  got  the  body  of 
Mrs.  Alderdice  buried  and  Mrs.  Weichel  fixed 
up  all  right — the  old  squaw  had  chopped  her  up 

158 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

some  with  that  hatchet — and  then,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, I  saw  the  Injuns  coming  back.  The  next 
thing  we  knew,  we  were  all  fighting  fit  to  kill 
and  there  were  more  Injuns  flying  around  there 
than  you  could  shake  a  stick  at. 

"Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  noticed  an  old  chief 
yapping  around  and  begging  his  warriors  to  fight 
until  they  died,  and,  Lou,  he  was  riding  the  most 
beautiful  horse  that  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  So 
I  just  said  to  myself  that  I'd  get  that  horse. 

"But  I  didn't  want  to  take  a  chance  on  wound- 
ing it.  There  was  a  gulley  right  along  the  battle- 
field, so  I  started  to  sneak  down  it.  An  Injun 
up  on  the  hill  saw  me  and  began  pecking  away  at 
me  with  his  gun  and  I  had  to  turn  around  and 
shoot  him  before  I  could  get  any  peace  and  quiet. 
Then  about  a  hundred  feet  farther  on,  another 
one  bobbed  up  and  started  to  make  motions  with 
his  gun  and  I  had  to  put  him  away  too.  By  this 
time  I  was  getting  pretty  near  disgusted.  And 
then,  when  I  slipped  on  a  rock  and  skinned  my 
knee,  I  just  sat  down  and  cussed. 

"But  I  kept  on,  and  finally  I  picked  myself  out 
a  place  where  I  knew  that  Injun  would  pass  if 
he  kept  on  exhorting  his  warriors  the  way  he 
had  been.  I  was  pretty  much  inside  the  Injun 

159 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

lines  now,  and  most  any  minute  one  of  those 
tomahawkers  might  come  along  and  begin  carv- 
ing on  me — but  I  wanted  that  horse.  And,  by 
golly,  I  got  him.  First  thing  I  knew,  along  sailed 
old  Tall  Bull,  talking  and  yelling  fit  to  kill,  and 
I  decided  to  stop  the  whole  shooting  match  right 
then  and  get  some  peace  around  there,  to  say 
nothing  of  that  horse.  So  I  just  up  and  banged 
away,  and,  Lou,  I've  got  the  finest  riding  horse 
now  that  you  ever  looked  at." 

So  that  is  the  story  of  the  killing  of  Tall  Bull 
that  Buffalo  Bill  told  me,  his  wife.  Many  times 
afterward  he  laughed  at  the  historical  account  of 
the  killing — one  out  of  the  many  heroic  things 
with  which  he  is  credited  that  he  did  not  ac- 
complish. Nor  did  he  ever  claim  it. 

A  glorious,  happy  month  there  in  Old  St. 
Louis,  then  Will  went  away  again.  But  we  were 
to  meet  soon,  this  time  not  to  part  for  years. 

It  was  late  in  August,  1869,  that  I  stepped  off 
the  train  in  Omaha,  to  find  Will  awaiting  Arta 
and  me.  Then  together  we  made  our  way  by 
rail  and  wagon  train  out  to  Fort  McPherson,  on 
the  forks  of  the  North  and  South  Platte,  twenty 
miles  south  of  which  is  now  North  Platte, 
Nebraska. 

160 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Only  a  frontier  trading  post  it  was,  with  the 
houses  of  the  few  settlers  and  traders  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  fort  proper.  And  there, 
in  the  trading  post  of  William  Reed,  we  stayed 
until  the  log  house  was  completed. 

A  wonderful  thing  it  was,  according  to  the 
standards  of  the  West  in  those  days.  The  com- 
manding officer  of  the  fort  had  allowed  Will  to 
take  a  number  of  tents  which  had  been  con- 
demned, and  with  these  the  walls  had  been  lined, 
after  a  chinking  of  mud  had  been  placed  against 
all  the  logs.  An  old  army  stove  had  been  pro- 
cured somewhere  and  set  up  in  the  kitchen  to 
serve  as  a  combination  instrument  of  heating  and 
cooking.  Then,  with  the  first  wagon  train  from 
Cheyenne,  bearing  the  furniture  that  Will  had 
ordered,  we  moved  into  our  new  home. 

But  Will  seemed  worried.  Something  was 
missing.  Piece  after  piece  of  furniture,  such  as 
it  was,  we  unpacked;  bundle  after  bundle  we 
opened,  but  the  object  of  his  search  did  not 
make  its  appearance.  At  last  there  was  noth- 
ing left  to  investigate  and  Will  straightened  up 
from  his  work. 

"Guess  I've  got  to  ride  into  Cheyenne  and 
get  it  myself,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  finality. 

161 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Get  what?"  I  asked. 

"Not  going  to  tell  you,"  came  his  anwser.  "It's 
a  surprise.  Of  course,  they  had  to  go  and  leave 
it  out.  But  never  mind,  I'll  bring  it  back." 

Cheyenne  was  far  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
away,  but  Will  kissed  the  baby  and  me  and 
walked  out  to  his  horse  like  a  man  going  down 
to  the  drug  store  for  a  cigar.  Soon  he  had  faded 
in  the  distance  as  his  horse  scurried  over  the  sand- 
hills, not  to  appear  until  days  later.  Then,  dusty, 
but  radiant,  he  dropped  from  his  horse,  and 
lugged  a  bundle  into  the  house. 

"There  it  is !"  he  proclaimed  proudly.  "There's 
something  worth  looking  at!" 

I  opened  the  bundle.    It  was  wall  paper! 

It  was  not  exactly  what  he  had  wanted,  to  be 
sure.  The  flowers  were  small,  and  the  back- 
ground placid.  But  it  was  wall  paper  and  that 
was  all  that  counted.  Will  looked  about  him  ap- 
praisingly. 

"Got  any  flour?"  he  asked. 

"Plenty." 

"Put  some  of  it  on  the  stove  and  heat  it  up — 
you  know — with  water.  Think  I'll  do  a  little 
paper  hanging." 

"But,  Will,  can't  the  soldiers " 

162 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Nope!  Any  wall  paper  that  I  have  to  go  to 
Cheyenne  to  get,  I'll  paste  up.  Might  as  well 
make  it  a  good  job  all  the  way  around." 

Whereupon,  while  I  prepared  the  paste,  Will 
departed  for  Mr.  Reed's  store,  to  return  a  few 
moments  later,  lugging  a  rickety  stepladder,  and 
a  broad  paint  brush.  Then  he  spread  a  roll  of 
wall  paper  on  the  floor  and  began  to  sop  it  with 
paste. 

And  from  then  on,  things  happened.  Will 
got  paste  in  his  eyes,  he  got  paste  in  his  hair  and 
paste  in  his  mustache.  One  strip  would  hang 
beautiful  and  straight ;  another  would  take  a  sud- 
den notion  to  curl  and  crinkle,  while  Will,  balan- 
cing himself  on  the  rickety  stepladder  would  sing 
and  whistle  and  say  things  to  himself  and — now 
and  then  I  would  walk  out  into  our  little  yard 
and  let  him  get  the  cuss  words  out  of  his  system 
that  I  knew  were  seething  there.  Then  I  would 
come  back,  Arta  at  my  side,  to  watch  the  wonder- 
ful operation  of  papering  our  home. 

Had  Will  continued  at  the  job,  it  undoubtedly 
would  have  been  a  marvelous  piece  of  work. 
Sometimes  the  flowers  matched ;  most  of  the  time 
they  didn't.  Sometimes  the  paper  was  cut  too 
short  and  sometimes  too  long.  Often  it  curled 

163 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

and  crinkled  like  some  old,  dried  piece  of  parch- 
ment and  positively  refused  to  take  any  definite 
position  on  the  canvas  whatever.  But  Will  per- 
sisted at  his  self-appointed  task,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  rickety  old  ladder,  groaning  and  grunt- 
ing under  his  weight,  finally  brought  him,  his 
brush  and  half  the  wall  paper  clattering  down 
upon  the  floor  that  he  decided  to  retire  from  the 
field  of  operations. 

Carefully  I  unwound  the  paper  from  about  his 
neck  and  shoulders  where  most  of  it  had  settled, 
sticking  to  his  buckskin  coat  with  a  tenacity  that 
it  had  never  shown  on  the  wall,  whitening  his 
mustache  and  goatee  and  hair  and  giving  him 
much  of  the  appearance  that  one  sees  in  a  motion 
picture  after  the  throwing  of  the  fateful  custard 
pie.  Just  as  carefully  Will  arose  and  stared  at 
the  wrecked  result  of  his  efforts  as  an  interior 
decorator.  He  rubbed  his  brow  with  a  pasty 
hand. 

"I  guess  I'm  more  of  a  success  as  an  Injun 
killer,"  he  mused,  and  the  job  was  left  to  the 
soldiers. 

They  showed  more  aptitude,  with  the  result 
that  Will  and  Arta  and  I  soon  had  a  cozy,  happy 
little  home.  Fall  was  coming,  and  with  it  the 

164 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

cold  snap  of  the  wind  and  now  and  then  a  flurry 
of  snow,  or  the  sweeping  swirl  of  a  sandstorm. 
But  we  did  not  mind.  We  were  happy  and  com- 
fortable and  warm,  sitting  by  the  fire  o'  nights, 
Will  with  Arta  on  his  lap,  telling  her  stories  of 
the  days  when  she  was  a  wee,  tiny  baby,  and 
when  her  mother  was  a  tenderfoot  straight  from 
the  big  city,  and  oh,  so  afraid  of  the  West.  Will 
always  loved  to  tell  those  things — and  all  for  the 
reason  that  he  knew  that  I  would  answer  him 
with  a  story  on  himself,  such  as  his  race  on  Brig- 
ham  when  he  wore  the  Little  Red  Riding 
Suit,  or  the  time  when  he  rode  "mule  express" 
and  walked  all  the  way.  No  man  ever  lived  who 
had  a  greater  sense  of  humor  than  Buffalo  Bill, 
and  the  best  part  of  it  all  was  the  fact  that  the 
story  he  loved  the  best  was  the  one  which  had  him 
as  the  butt  end  of  the  joke. 

We  were  very  happy.  The  Indians  were  giv- 
ing little  trouble,  game  was  plentiful,  and  there 
was  rarely  a  night  that  Will  was  forced  to  spend 
away  from  me.  But  as  winter  came  on  and  the 
plains  grew  white  with  snow,  the  inevitable 
change  approached. 

Outside  the  cabin,  the  wind  was  screaming  and 
whining  one  evening,  as  Will  and  Arta  and  I  sat 

165 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

before  the  fire,  talking  and  laughing  and  joking 
as  usual.  Now  and  then  a  flurry  of  snow  would 
sift  against  the  little  windows,  indicative  of  the 
blizzard  that  was  sure  to  come  during  the  night. 

And  as  we  sat  there A  shouting  voice.  A 

clattering  knock  on  the  door.  The  call  of: 

"Cody!    Cody!" 

Will  leaped  to  his  feet.  A  second  more  and  he 
had  opened  the  door,  to  find  one  of  the  scouts 
there,  fidgeting,  anxious. 

"Injuns,  Bill!"  came  his  sharp  greeting. 
"They've  gone  on  the  path.  Sioux !" 

Already  I  was  at  Will's  side  with  his  heavy 
coat,  his  cap,  his  gloves  and  rifle.  A  hasty  good- 
by  and  he  was  gone.  Ten  minutes  later  I  heard 
the  faint  call  of  "boots  and  saddles"  from  the  fort, 
then  the  sound  of  many  horses  as  the  soldiers 
rode  forth.  And  I  knew  that  far  in  front  of 
them,  riding  hard  and  fast  against  the  wind,  was 
my  husband,  facing  the  dangers  of  darkness,  of 
snow  and  of  cold,  to  take  up  his  position  in  the 
advance  and  to  give  the  warning  that  would  lead 
to  battle. 

But  the  same  sort  of  thing  had  happened  be- 
fore in  my  life,  and  I  took  it  as  I  had  always 

166 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

taken  it.  Long  before  Will  had  told  me  never 
to  worry,  never  to  fret  for  him. 

"It's  bad  luck,  Lou,"  he  had  said.  "I'm  al- 
ways the  first  one  to  go  out  and  I'll  always  be 
the  first  to  come  back.  If  I  know  that  you  are 
worrying  about  me,  that  will  make  me  worry  too 
—and  some  day  it  may  make  me  lose  my  head, 
just  when  I  need  it  worst." 

I  had  promised  and  kept  my  word — and  Will 
had  kept  his  also.  Galloping  always  in  the  ad- 
vance of  a  command  that  he  might  scout  out  the 
country  and  report  the  signs  of  Indians,  Will 
inevitably  was  the  first  to  hurry  forth  on  the  call 
to  action.  But  just  as  he  had  said,  he  was  al- 
ways the  first  to  gallop  back  into  camp  after 
the  fighting  was  over  and  the  troops  returning, 
that  he  might  bring  the  news  of  the  engagement 
and  assure  me  of  his  safety. 

And  so  I  did  not  worry,  except  for  his  comfort 
and  for  his  health.  The  wind  became  sharper  and 
colder,  and  with  the  change  the  flurries  of  snow 
changed  to  a  straight  driving  sheet  of  white  that 
fairly  seemed  to  cut  through  the  air,  heaping 
itself  up  against  the  window  ledges,  sifting 
through  the  tiny  chink  beneath  the  door  and 
through  the  one  or  two  wee  holes  that  had  been 

167 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

left  where  the  window  sashes  had  been  set  into 
the  logs.  For  a  long  time  I  sat  in  front  of  the 
fire,  Arta  in  my  arms,  until  she  went  to  sleep. 
Then  I  put  her  to  bed,  and  went  back  to  my 
chair,  to  doze  a  while  before  retiring. 

It  was  an  hour  or  so  later  that  I  awakened 
with  a  start.  Some  one  was  at  the  door,  pound- 
ing hard  against  it  and  calling.  I  answered  the 
knock,  and  a  snow-whitened  soldier  hurried  in 
out  of  the  wind. 

"The  Major  would  like  to  see  Colonel  Cody, 
please." 

"Colonel  Cody  is  out — scouting.  He  went  out 
with  the  detachment  that  left  here  early  in  the 
evening,"  I  said. 

The  soldier  appeared  puzzled. 

"But  that  detachment  came  back,  Mrs.  Ccdy." 

"Back?"  A  quick  fear  shot  through  my  heart. 
"How  long  ago?" 

"About  an  hour  and  a  half." 

"Well,  then,  maybe  the  Colonel  is  over  at  the 
fort.  Did  you  look?" 

"Yessum.  At  the  officers'  club  and  every- 
where. Nobody'd  seen  him.  So  I  thought— 

My  hands  were  clasped  until  they  were  white. 
The  detachment  had  come  back — but  somewhere, 

168 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

out  in  that  blizzard,  was  my  husband.  And  I 
knew  he  was  in  danger!  I  seized  my  greatcoat 
and  hurried  toward  the  fort  with  the  soldier.  Just 
as  we  reached  the  dim  lights  of  the  gate,  I  saw  a 
group  of  men  gathered  about  something.  I  hur- 
ried forward — it  was  Will's  horse,  which  had  just 
come  in — riderless ! 

"Boots  and  saddles"  was  being  sounded  again 
—and  I  knew  that  this  time  they  were  calling  for 
aid,  aid  for  my  husband,  somewhere  out  there  in 
the  blizzard.  Perhaps  already  he  was  dead,  per- 
haps a  victim  of  a  lurking  Indian's  bullet ;  no  one 
knew.  The  command  of  the  party  had  deemed 
it  wisest  to  turn  back,  so  that  undoubtedly  the 
Indians  would  be  forced  to  seek  cover  from 
the  storm  and  hunting  them  would  be  useless 
with  the  blizzard  covering  every  track,  every 
mark  which  could  give  an  indication  of  their 
progress.  And  with  the  turning  back,  Cody  had, 
as  usual,  forged  ahead.  But  here  was  his  horse, 
without  its  rider. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  back  again 
and  wait — back  to  the  little  log  home  where  we 
had  laughed  and  joked  by  the  fireside  only  a  few 
hours  before — back  to  wait  until  some  word 
should  come  from  the  searchers,  and  the  informa- 

169 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

tion  as  to  whether  Will,  my  Will,  were  alive  or 
dead. 

And  oh,  the  agony  of  waiting!  Waiting  with- 
out the  knowledge  of  what  is  happening  out  there 
somewhere,  without  the  faintest  hint  of  the  ac- 
cident or  the  disaster  that  has  befallen  the  man 
you  love!  Nothing!  Just  empty  nothing;  with 
the  moaning  of  the  cold,  cutting  wind  to  send  a 
thousand  fears  clutching  at  your  heart,  the  sift- 
ing of  the  snow  to  remind  you  that  out  on  the 
plains  the  drifts  were  heaping  higher  and  higher, 
and  that  one  of  them  might  conceal  the  body  of 
the  great-hearted  boy — and  that  is  just  what  he 
was — who  was  yours. 

My  throat  was  dry  and  parched,  my  whole 
body  burning  as  with  a  fever,  yet  I  was  cold — 
cold  with  fear.  Dully  I  heard  the  soft  thudding 
of  hoofs  as  the  men  rode  forth  on  their  cold  mis- 
sion; anxiously  I  awaited  the  same  sound  that 
would  tell  of  their  return,  and  perhaps  some 
news  for  me.  But  it  did  not  come. 

The  minutes  lengthened  to  hours,  while  I  stood 
at  the  window,  wiping  the  frost  away  and  watch- 
ing the  faint  swirl  of  the  snow,  extending  only 
as  far  as  the  light  from  within  extended,  yet 
watching  nevertheless.  I  at  least  was  looking 

170 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

into  the  outside  world,  and  that  world  contained 
my  husband. 

Waiting — waiting !  You  who  live  the  peaceful 
life  of  to-day,  with  comforts  all  about  you,  with 
telephones,  with  every  convenience,  have  little 
idea  of  what  that  word  means — waiting,  while 
men  rode  out  into  the  trackless  prairie  where  the 
snow  whirled  and  sifted,  where  every  track 
vanished  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  made,  waiting 
without  even  the  knowledge  of  what  I  was  wait- 
ing for — such  was  my  night.  The  hours  dragged 
by,  ever  and  ever  so  slowly.  Then,  as  daylight 
came,  and  I  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer,  I 
wrapped  myself  in  my  greatcoat  and  started  out 
into  the  snow. 

I  had  hardly  gone  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
when  a  cry  came  from  my  lips,  and  I  started  for- 
ward. Away  off  in  the  dull  gray  of  the  distance, 
a  form  was  stumbling  forward,  falling,  rising, 
then  stumbling  on  again.  I  called,  but  there 
came  no  answer.  Again  I  called  as  I  ran  for- 
ward, and  I  saw  the  figure  faintly  raise  an  arm 
and  endeavor  to  wave.  Then  it  sank  to  the  snow 
again.  It  was  Will,  my  husband. 

Hurriedly  I  reached  his  side  and  helped  him 
to  rise.  His  features  were  blue  from  the  intense 

1T1 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

cold,  his  lips  chattering  from  the  fatigue  and  ex- 
posure. My  strength  suddenly  became  super- 
human; small  as  I  was  in  comparison  to  his  great 
frame,  I  put  my  arm  about  him,  and  my  shoulder 
beneath  his  armpit,  and  almost  carried  him  to 
the  cabin,  there  to  support  him  to  the  bed,  where 
he  fell  unconscious. 

Hurriedly  I  ran  to  the  fort  and  summoned 
the  doctor,  returning  with  him  just  as  the  first  of 
the  searchers  came  in  with  the  news  that  they  had 
trailed  the  tracks  of  a  man  to  the  cabin,  and  in- 
quired if  Will  had  gotten  safely  home.  It  was 
with  happiness  and  fear  that  I  replied  in  the 
affirmative.  Happiness  for  his  return,  fear  for 
what  the  doctor  might  say,  and  what  might  follow 
as  the  result  of  his  exposure. 

Will  was  conscious  when  we  reached  him,  and 
as  I  rubbed  his  half-frozen  hands  with  snow,  he 
told  of  the  accident  which  had  nearly  caused  his 
death.  He  had  been  hurrying  home  to  me  and 
he  had  not  watched  his  progress  as  closely  as  he 
should.  Soon  he  realized  that  he  was  off  the  trail, 
traveling  blindly  in  the  darkness  and  fast-driven 
snow.  Then  a  rocking  crash,  a  fall,  and  when  he 
again  became  conscious,  it  was  with  the  realiza- 
tion that  he  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  ravine  into 

172 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

which  his  horse  had  stumbled,  and  that  the  horse 
was  gone.  And  through  the  night  he  had 
wandered  in  the  blizzard,  at  last  to  strike  the 
faint,  snow-covered  evidences  of  the  trail  again, 
and  to  fight  his  way  homeward. 

While  he  talked  the  doctor  made  his  examina- 
tion, anointed  the  bruises,  bandaged  the  torn 
flesh  resultant  from  the  fall  in  the  ravine  and 
then  gave  his  verdict: 

"He'll  be  all  right  again  in  a  few  days." 
And  then  my  tears  came,  tears  of  happiness, 
to  eyes  that  had  been  dry  and  staring  through- 
out the  long  night.    Of  such,  sometimes  consisted 
the  life  of  the  wife  of  a  winner  of  the  West, 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  fact,  life  on  the  plains  had  many  a  diversity. 
Will's  adventure  in  the  blizzard  became  history 
within  a  week  or  so,  and  he  was  once  more  up 
and  out  on  the  range,  driving  the  Indians  off  the 
warpath,  while  I  drove  them  away  from  the  house 
in  which  we  lived.  For  I  had  my  Indian  battles 
as  well. 

Some  of  them  are  laughable  now,  as  I  look 
back  upon  them  from  the  safe  distance  of  many 
years.  But  in  those  days  they  were  serious  af- 
fairs, to  say  nothing  of  being  vexatious.  It's  not 
the  cheeriest  feeling  in  the  world  to  be  sitting  in 
the  old  rocking  chair,  with  your  daughter  beside 
you,  comfortably  sewing  in  the  radius  of  heat 
thrown  out  by  the  old  army  stove — then  suddenly 
to  become  aware  of  the  fact  that  some  one  is 
staring  at  you  through  a  window,  and  look  up 
to  find  that  some  one  an  Indian.  That  happened 
more  than  once. 

And  more  than  once  they  ran  away,  more 
frightened  at  the  sight  of  Pahaska's  wife  than  of 

174 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Pahaska  himself.  With  the  growing  of  that  long 
hair,  Will  had  become  the  recipient  of  a  new  name 
from  the  Indians,  that  of  Pahaska,  or  "the  long- 
haired man,"  and  as  Pahaska's  wife,  I  had  plenty 
of  Indian  victories  to  my  credit — as  well  as  a 
good  many  defeats. 

In  the  little  circle  in  which  we  lived  were  just 
six  log  huts,  the  nearest  of  which  was  the  one  oc- 
cupied by  William  MacDonald,  a  trader.  The 
result  was  that  when  Will  was  out  on  a  scouting 
expedition  and  Mr.  MacDonald  was  busy  with 
the  work  of  his  trading  post,  Mrs.  MacDonald 
would  come  over  to  my  house,  and  together  we 
would  do  our  sewing  or  laundry — for  servants 
were  an  unknown  quantity  at  Fort  McPherson. 
On  these  visits,  I  always  noticed  that  Mrs.  Mac- 
Donald  would  bring  a  package  which  I  could  see 
contained  a  bottle,  and  place  it  within  easy  reach. 

"Indian  medicine,"  she  explained  the  first  time, 
as  though  I  would  understand,  and  then  said  no 
more  about  it.  Nor  did  I  question. 

Time  after  time  she  visited  the  cabin,  finally  to 
look  out  toward  the  ravine  just  back  of  the  house 
one  day  as  we  were  ironing,  and  leap  to  her 
package. 

175 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Indians,"  she  exclaimed,  "they're  coming 
right  this  way." 

I  hurried  to  the  window. 

"Sioux!"  There  was  fear  in  my  voice  as  I 
noticed  their  headgear,  their  dress  and  accouter- 
ments.  They  were  sneaking  along,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  every  gulley,  every  natural  hiding 
place — a  band  of  raiders,  creeping  in  as  close  as 
possible  upon  the  fort  to  steal  what  they  could, 
then  to  make  their  escape.  I  heard  Mrs.  Mac- 
Donald  take  the  wrapping  from  the  package  she 
always  carried,  then  turn  in  my  direction. 

"All  right,"  she  called.     "Take  it— quick!" 

I  looked  at  her,  to  see  her  waving  a  hatchet  in 
one  hand,  and  holding  forth  a  bottle  of  what 
looked  like  whisky  in  the  other.  I  gasped — but 
she  smiled  quickly. 

"It's  only  cold  tea,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "In- 
dians are  afraid  of  a  drunken  woman.  So  we've 
got  to  be  drunk — quick!" 

I  felt  like  a  tenderfoot.  And  yet,  I  had  never 
been  in  a  situation  just  like  this  before.  There 
came  a  slight  sound  from  the  other  part  of  the 
house  and  I  turned  apprehensively  with  the 
thought  of  Arta,  my  little  daughter,  whom  I  had 
left  asleep  in  the  next  room.  Just  then  the  door 

176 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

opened  and  she  came  trotting  in,  to  stop  staring 
as  she  saw  Mrs.  MacDonald.  I  hurried  to  her. 

"You  must  appear  frightened,  Honey,"  I  said 
quickly.  "Indians!" 

She  began  to  cry,  and  we  encouraged  her  in 
it.  Then,  with  one  sweep,  I  pulled  my  hair  over 
my  eyes,  and  grasped  the  bottle  of  cold  tea  that 
Mrs.  MacDonald  had  thrust  in  my  direction,  just 
as  the  first  of  the  Sioux  approached  the  house. 
Mrs.  MacDonald  screamed,  like  an  insane 
woman. 

"Give  me  that  girl!"  she  cried,  and  started  in 
my  direction,  swinging  the  hatchet.  Wildly  she 
waved  it  in  the  air,  and  crashed  it  down  on  the 
ironing  board,  ruining  a  perfectly  new  blanket, 
and  splitting  the  board  from  end  to  end.  Arta 
cried  louder  than  ever.  I  reeled  about  the  room, 
the  hair  hanging  over  my  eyes,  acting  as  though 
I  were  trying  to  drink  from  the  bottle,  and  was 
too  intoxicated  to  do  so.  And  as  I  staggered 
toward  the  window,  I  saw  a  face  that  was  more 
frightened  even  than  that  of  my  daughter's. 

It  was  a  Sioux  chieftain,  standing  there,  his 
eyes  popping,  his  mouth  hanging  wide  open.  Only 
a  moment  more  did  he  stare,  then  I  saw  him  leap 
away  and  gesticulate  wildly.  Hurriedly,  three 

177 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

others  joined  him,  and  from  a  distance  stood  a 
second,  looking  in  on  our  masquerade.  Then 
came  a  guttural  warning: 

"Wanitch!  Lile  sietche!  Lile  sietche!" 
Perhaps  my  spelling  is  wrong,  after  all  these 
years,  but  I'll  never  forget  the  words.  Again 
the  warning  sounded,  telling  the  others  that  we 
were  bad,  bad,  worse  than  bad,  and  that  it  was 
time  to  move.  A  hurried  pow  wow,  then  down 
the  ravine  raced  fifteen  or  twenty  bow-legged 
Sioux  warriors,  running  as  hard  as  they  could 
from  two  women  and  a  little  girl.  I  gathered 
Arta  to  me  as  quickly  as  I  could  and  soothed 
her  fears.  Then  Mrs.  MacDonald  and  I  sank 
into  the  two  chairs  that  the  room  afforded,  took 
one  look  at  each  other  and  laughed  until  our 
sides  ached.  Truly  there  never  existed  two  more 
maudlin  appearing  persons  than  she  and  I 
seemed  to  be  just  at  that  moment.  Our  hair 
stringing  about  our  faces,  our  dresses  splattered 
with  the  contents  of  the  cold  tea  bottle,  Mrs.  Mac- 
Donald  still  with  that  hatchet  clutched  tight  in 
her  hand,  and  the  smashed  ironing  board  leaning 
all  awry — realism  appeared  everywhere.  And 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  were  quaking  from 

178 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

fright,  we  laughed  until  we  almost  rolled  out  of 
our  chairs. 

So  passed  my  first  real  visit  from  the  Indians. 
I  was  to  have  many  more,  of  a  different  type. 
The  Pawnees,  friendly  though  they  were,  had 
just  been  mustered  out  of  service  as  United 
States  soldiers,  and  they  naturally  felt  that  they 
still  had  the  right  to  go  and  come  about  the  fort 
as  they  always  had  done.  Coupled  with  this  was 
the  fact  that  restrictions  had  been  removed  from 
them  and  the  watch  which  had  been  kept  on  them 
while  they  had  been  in  uniform  had  lessened  in 
a  great  degree.  Therefore  the  houses  of  the 
settlers  outside  the  fort  soon  began  to  feel  their 
presence,  mine  especially. 

They  were  the  ones  who  peered  through  the 
windows,  or  who  more  than  once  simply  stalked 
into  the  house,  bobbed  their  heads  and  grinned, 
said,  "How  kola"  and  proceeded  to  make  a  grab 
for  anything  eatable  in  sight.  I  don't  believe  I 
ever  saw  a  Pawnee  Indian  in  my  life  when  he 
wasn't  hungry.  At  least,  none  of  them  ever 
showed  themselves  about  the  Cody  cabin.  And  I 
remember  one  time  when  they  were  particularly 
gifted  with  hunger,  while  I 

Well,  Will  had  come  to  me,  all  excited,  with 
179 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  light  in  his  eyes  that  always  glowed  when 
something  wonderful  was  about  to  happen. 
Hurriedly  he  surveyed  my  little  pantry,  then 
grunted. 

"Guess  I'd  better  start  making  tracks  for  the 
hunting  grounds/'  he  exclaimed.  "Fine  people 
coming,  Mamma.  We're  going  to  entertain 
royalty!" 

"Royalty?"  I  blinked.  "In  this  little  log 
house?" 

Will  looked  at  me  and  chuckled. 

"That's  why  they're  coming  here,"  he  an- 
swered. "A  log  house  is  just  as  much  of  a 
novelty  to  them  as  their  big  houses  would  be  to 
us.  Just  got  the  word  up  at  the  fort.  They're 
going  to  be  here  day  after  to-morrow.  Where's 
my  gun?" 

He  already  had  it  in  his  hand  and  was  examin- 
ing it  carefully.  He  started  toward  the  door, 
then  stopped. 

"I'm  just  going  to  bring  in  an  antelope  and 
some  sage  chickens  and  stuff  like  that,"  he  an- 
nounced. "It'll  just  be  that  sort  of  a  dinner 
and " 

"But,  Will,"  I  begged,  "I  don't  even  know 
who  it's  for  yet." 

180 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"That's  right!"  He  cocked  his  head.  "Got  so 
excited  that  I  forgot  all  about  it.  It's  Lord  and 
Lady  Dunraven  from  England,  and  Lord  Finn 
from  Australia.  They're  coming  out  here  to  see 
what  the  West  looks  like  and,  of  course,  it's  sort 
of  our  business  to  entertain  them.  They  won't 
live  here" — he  laughed  as  he  looked  at  the  rather 
meager  furnishings  of  the  little  home — "but  we'll 
have  a  spread  for  them.  So  I'm  going  out  now 
to  get  the  fixings." 

He  kissed  me  good-by,  lifted  Arta  in  his  great 
arms,  swung  her  high  in  the  air  and  planted  her 
on  the  floor  again.  Then  with  a  booming  good- 
by  he  was  gone,  while  I  faced  the  problem  of 
entertaining  royalty  in  a  log  cabin. 

As  soon  as  I  could  I  hurried  to  the  person  who 
was  always  my  good  friend,  Mrs.  MacDonald. 
Together  we  schemed  and  devised,  and  in  her 
kitchen  we  cooked  the  pies  and  cakes  that  must 
accompany  the  dinner.  The  next  day  Will  came 
home  lugging  sage  chicken  and  an  antelope  slung 
across  his  saddle.  We  took  the  choicest,  tenderest 
portions,  and  planned  the  great  meal. 

And  what  a  meal  it  was  to  be!  Mrs.  Mac- 
Donald  and  I  were  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing and  at  work  in  that  kitchen,  roasting  and 

181 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

basting,  flying  about  here  and  there,  trying  to  do 
impossible  things  with  the  cooking  utensils  we 
possessed,  hurrying  to  and  from  the  trading  post, 
and  rushing  about  as  though  it  were  our  last  day 
on  earth.  Gradually  we  began  to  get  the  meal 
assembled,  after  we  had  lugged  almost  every- 
thing that  the  trading  post  possessed  over  to  the 
little  cabin,  to  make  the  place  presentable  for 
the  great  guests.  The  hours  passed.  Mealtime 
came,  and  with  everything  warming  on  the  stove, 
we  shut  the  kitchen  door  and  went  into  the  "set- 
ting room-dining  room"  to  receive  the  guests. 

Soon  they  came,  Lord  and  Lady  Dunraven 
first,  and  Lord  Finn  following.  Mrs.  MacDon- 
ald  and  myself  had  been  trembling  somewhat 
with  excitement — and  this,  accompanied  by  the 
booming  excitement  of  Will  as  he  told  them 
about  the  building  of  the  cabin,  his  attempts  at 
hanging  wall  paper  and  the  various  vicissitudes 
we  had  undergone  in  trying  to  make  our  home 
out  here  on  the  plains,  made  the  moments  pass 
far  quicker  than  I  imagined.  At  last,  however, 
I  started  slightly  at  a  punch  on  the  knee  from 
Mrs.  MacDonald  and  I  turned  to  see  her  nod  in 
the  direction  of  the  kitchen.  I  rose. 

"Now  if  you'll  just  all  take  seats,"  I  an- 
182 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

nounced,  "Mrs.  MacDonald  and  I  will  serve  the 
dinner.  You  see,"  I  laughed,  "we  don't  have  ser- 
vants out  here  like  you  do  in  England." 

Lady  Dunraven  smiled  and  rose. 

"Can't  I  help?"  she  asked. 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  it!  Besides,  there  isn't  so 
much  to  bring  in.  Now,  you  all  just  sit  down 
here  and  be  comfortable.  Mrs.  MacDonald  and 
I  will  look  after  all  the  fixings.  Better  begin  to 
whet  up  that  knife,  Will!" 

"That's  what  I  had,"  boomed  my  husband. 
"Tell  you  right  now,  Lord  Dunraven,  you  may 
have  a  lot  of  things  over  in  England  that  we 
haven't  got  out  here  in  the  West,  but  you  haven't 
got  the  game.  No  sirree,  bob!  Just  wait  'til 
you  taste  that  antelope.  Killed  him  myself  when 
I  heard  you  were  coming  and ; 

I  lost  the  rest  of  it.  I  had  opened  the  kitchen 
door,  to  stand  a  moment  aghast,  then  to  rush  for- 
ward in  white  anger,  seize  the  big  coffee  pot  and 
slosh  the  whole  contents  of  it  across  the  room. 
For  where  the  dinner  had  been  was  now  only  a 
mass  of  messy,  mussed  over  dishes !  The  kitchen 
was  full  of  Pawnees !  And  the  Pawnees  were  full 
of  the  dinner  that  had  been  cooked  for  royalty! 

Wildly  they  scrambled  as  the  hot  coffee 
183 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

scorched  them,  waving  their  arms  and  jumping 
and  struggling  to  get  out  the  door.  A  long  stick 
of  wood  lay  in  the  corner  and  I  seized  it,  calling 
for  my  husband  as  I  did  so.  Then,  without 
stopping  to  see  whether  or  not  he  was  coming,  I 
lit  into  those  Indians ! 

"Get  out  of  this  house!"  I  screamed  at  them, 
pounding  away  with  my  club.  "If  I  ever  catch 
you  in  here  again " 

"Yes,  don't  you  dare  ever  come  near  this 
house!"  A  slapping,  banging  sound,  and  I 
realized  Mrs.  MacDonald  was  beside  me,  whang- 
ing away  at  them  with  a  broom.  And  above  all 
of  it  we  heard  the  sound  of  heavy,  rumbling 
laughter  and: 

"That's  right,  Mamma!  Give  it  to  'em!  That's 
right— that's  right!" 

I  stopped  and  turned. 

"Will  Cody!"  I  snapped.  And  then  the  tears 
came.  Will's  laughter  ceased  immediately. 
Hurriedly  he  came  forward  and  put  his  arms 
about  me,  while  their  Lordships  and  her  Lady- 
ship watched  somewhat  surprisedly  from  the 
door. 

"There,  there,"  he  comforted  me.  "I'll  get 
184 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

those  Injuns  to-morrow  and  scalp  every  one  of 
'em!" 

"They— ate— up— my  dinner!"  I  sobbed.  Will 
couldn't  hold  back  a  chuckle. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "a  part  of  it  was  mine. 
So  I  guess  we've  both  got  cause  to  get  mad.  But 
don't  worry,  Mamma.  There's  plenty  to  eat  up 
at  the  fort." 

Thus  went  glimmering  our  first  attempt  at 
feeding  royalty.  I  took  one  last,  tear-dimmed 
look  at  the  sodden  remains  of  my  feast,  and  then 
we  all  went  to  the  fort  for  the  food  that  should 
have  been  served  on  the  Cody  table.  But  just 
the  same,  while  I  saw  a  good  many  Indian  faces 
after  that,  I  never  saw  one  of  the  group  of 
Pawnees  that  sneaked  into  my  kitchen  and  ate 
the  food  of  royalty. 

So  went  my  life,  day  after  day — and  some- 
times there  were  incidents  in  my  "Indian  cam- 
paign" that  were  far  from  ludicrous. 

As  I  have  said,  there  was  a  ravine  just  back 
of  our  little  home  through  which  the  Indians  often 
sneaked  in  their  raiding  expeditions  on  the  fort. 
The  Pawnees  rarely  frightened  me,  for  they  were 
a  friendly,  good  humored  lot  as  a  rule,  grinning 
and  foolish  and  thieving,  and  it  was  nothing  to 

185 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

run  them  away.    But  when  the  Sioux  came ! 

Arta  and  myself  were  sunning  ourselves  in  the 
big  chair  one  afternoon  and  dozing.  Will  had 
left  for  the  fort  only  a  short  time  ago  with  Texas 
Jack,  who  had  stopped  in  from  one  of  his  scout- 
ing expeditions.  Everything  was  peaceful  and 
quiet,  when  suddenly  I  heard  the  slamming  of  a 
door  from  the  other  part  of  the  house  and  the 
hurried  swish  of  moccasined  feet.  I  leaped  from 
my  chair  and  ran  into  the  other  room,  leaving 
Arta  behind  me. 

"Get  out  of  here!"  I  cried  as  I  sighted  the  first 
of  a  number  of  Pawnees  crowding  into  the 
kitchen.  But  they  did  not  obey.  I  started  for- 
ward, suddenly  to  come  face  to  face  with  Old 
Horse,  one  of  the  Indians  who  had  served  in  the 
army  and  who  could  speak  English.  He  stopped 
me. 

"Sioux!"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  excitedly  out 
toward  the  ravine.  "Sioux !  Heap  mad  Pawnee. 
Pawnee  run — no  want  fight.  Hide  here.  Sioux 
goby!" 

"Go  by?"  I  questioned  in  a  voice  of  excite- 
ment. "If  you  think  so — look!"  I  pointed  out 
through  the  window,  toward  where  the  first  of  the 
Sioux  band  was  making  its  way  out  of  the  ravine. 

186 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"They're  coming  here — and  you  can't  stay! 
They'll  find  you " 

"We  stay  here!"  Old  Horse  crossed  his  arms 
and  shook  his  head.  "This  Pahaska's  tepee.  No 
come  here!" 

But  I  knew  better.  The  Indians  were  circling 
the  cabin  now  and  I  rushed  into  the  other  room 
and,  throwing  a  shawl  around  Arta,  opened  the 
window  and  lifted  her  through  it. 

"Run!"  I  told  her.  "Run  just  as  fast  as  you 
can  and  get  papa.  Tell  him  there  are  Indians 
here — Sioux!" 

The  little  girl  did  not  even  whimper.  Her  lips 
pressed  tight,  and  she  clenched  her  little  hands. 

"I'll  get  papa,"  she  said  confidently,  and  her 
little  legs  were  paddling  even  before  she  touched 
the  ground.  A  moment  more  and  she  had  dodged 
behind  a  slight  rise  in  the  ground  and  was  speed- 
ing as  hard  as  she  could  go  toward  the  fort,  while 
I  turned  to  see  the  first  of  the  Sioux  entering  my 
cabin. 

"Go  away!"  I  commanded  them.  But  the 
leader  only  looked  at  me  and  kicked  at  the  door 
leading  to  the  kitchen.  Around  at  the  other  side 
of  the  house  I  heard  other  sounds  which  told  me 
the  Indians  were  banging  away  at  the  entrance 

187 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

to  the  kitchen,  trying  to  gain  entrance  there.  A 
gun  lay  across  the  room  and  I  strove  to  reach  it, 
but  the  Sioux  were  too  quick  for  me.  One  of 
them,  a  great,  burly  warrior,  simply  picked  me 
up  in  his  arms  and  carried  me  across  the  floor, 
planting  me  in  one  corner. 

"You  Pahaska  squaw,"  he  said  quietly.  "Sioux 
no  hurt  Pahaska  squaw.  Me  fight  Pawnee!" 

A  glimmer  of  hope  came  to  me  with  the  realiza- 
tion that  he  could  speak  and  understand  Eng- 
lish. 

"But  there  are  no  Pawnees "  I  got  that  far 

and  stopped.  Will  had  told  me  never  to  lie  to 
an  Indian.  I  began  again  on  a  different  strain. 
"Pahaska  get  heap  mad!"  I  cautioned  him. 
"Pahaska  kill!" 

"Me  know  Pahaska!"  came  the  answer.  "Me 
fight  Pawnee." 

By  this  time  one  of  the  Indians  had  picked  up 
the  rifle  and  was  examining  it.  A  moment  more 
and  he  had  shot  through  the  door,  while  I  stood 
screaming  in  the  corner.  If  Will  would  only 
come,  if 

Far  away,  up  at  the  fort,  I  heard  the  faint  call 
of  a  bugle.  I  knew  that  call — a  call  that  sent  the 

188 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

blood  racing  through  my  veins.  "Boots  and 
saddles!" 

But  the  Sioux  did  not  seem  to  hear.  And  it 
would  mean  a  good  ten  minutes  before  those  sol- 
diers could  mount  and  reach  the  house.  Unless 
something  should  happen  before  that 

A  crashing  sound,  as  the  door  at  the  rear  of  the 
house  began  to  give  way.  A  shot  sounded,  then 
another.  Again  I  screamed,  then,  suddenly  for- 
getting my  fear,  raced  to  the  window  at  the  sound 
of  hoofs. 

Two  men  on  horseback  were  approaching.  One 
was  Will,  my  husband.  The  other  was  Texas 
Jack.  I  whirled  and  pointed. 

"Pahaska!"  I  cried.  The  Sioux  leader  shouted 
a  guttural  command.  A  moment  more  and  they 
were  piling  out  of  the  house  and  into  the  little 
yard,  where  they  faced  the  revolvers  of  Texas 
Jack  and  my  husband.  I  heard  a  clear,  com- 
manding voice. 

"Now,  you  Injuns  make  tracks — quick!  Jack, 
ride  around  to  the  other  side  and  help  hold  this 
bunch  'til  the  soldiers  come — they're  just  start- 
ing from  the  fort  now."  He  called  the  last  part 
of  the  sentence  to  me,  standing  trembling  in  the 
door.  Jack  swung  his  horse  about  and  rounded 

189 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

up  the  recalcitrant  Sioux,  keeping  his  revolvers 
ready  for  instant  action,  while  Will  upbraided 
them.  For,  it  seems,  this  was  a  small  band  of 
Sioux  that  had  presumably  made  peace,  and  had 
been  granted  government  stores  on  condition  that 
they  keep  out  of  trouble.  For  a  long  time  he 
harangued  them  in  Sioux,  then  suddenly  veered 
in  his  position,  as  a  number  of  cavalrymen  gal- 
loped up. 

"We'll  just  take  these  fellows  out  in  the  hills 
and  give  them  a  good  start,"  he  commanded. 


"But,  Will!"  I  called  from  the  door,  "the 
house  is  full  of  Pawnees.  They  were  fighting 
each  other." 

Will  jumped  from  his  horse. 

"Jack,"  he  ordered,  "you  and  some  of  the  men 
take  these  Injuns  off  to  the  North.  I'll  handle 
the  Pawnees." 

A  command  and  a  number  of  the  soldiers 
started  away,  driving  the  Indians  before  them. 
Will  came  into  the  house,  paused  just  long 
enough  to  kiss  me,  then  opened  the  door  to  the 
kitchen.  The  first  Indian  he  saw  was  Old  Horse, 
and  reaching  forward,  he  caught  the  Pawnee  by 
the  collar  of  his  leather  jacket. 

190 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"You  old  bag  o'  bones!"  he  shouted,  "I'll  teach 
you  to  come  into  my  house!" 

He  whirled  him  around — and  then  he  kicked! 
I  never  saw  an  Indian  move  so  swiftly  in  my  life ; 
it  was  as  though  he  had  been  lifted  by  a  catapult, 
straight  out  the  door  and  on  to  his  face  in  the 
pebble-strewn  yard.  Will  did  not  even  stop  to 
see  what  had  become  of  him.  He  was  too  busily 
engaged  in  dragging  out  the  other  Pawnees  and 
kicking  them  individually  and  collectively  out  of 
the  house. 

There  the  soldiers  corraled  them  and  started 
away  with  them  in  the  direction  opposite  to  that 
which  Texas  Jack  had  taken  with  the  Sioux. 
Five  hours  later,  Jack  and  Will  were  back,  after 
having  separated  their  various  charges  by  a  dis- 
tance of  about  ten  miles.  But  it  did  no  good. 

Late  that  night  a  wounded  Pawnee  limped  into 
camp,  and  asked  for  the  aid  of  the  soldiers.  Again 
"boots  and  saddles"  sounded  and  the  cavalry, 
Will  and  Texas  Jack  leading,  galloped  out  on 
the  plains.  This  time  the  battle  had  been  in  earn- 
est. Somewhere,  those  Indians  had  procured 
enough  firearms  and  ammunition  to  go  round, 
and  the  Sioux  had  trailed  the  Pawnees  until  they 
had  met.  When  the  cavalry  reached  there,  prac- 

191 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

tically  every  member  of  the  Pawnee  band  was 
either  dead  or  wounded,  while  the  Sioux  had 
hurried  on  at  the  first  warning  of  soldier  aid,  once 
more  to  take  to  the  warpath.  It  was  poor  diplo- 
macy to  trust  a  Sioux  in  those  days,  and  even 
Will  learned  that. 

There  were,  of  course,  many  of  the  Indians  who 
regarded  him  as  more  of  a  friend  than  an  enemy. 
It  was  not  Will's  policy  to  kill  Indians  simply 
for  the  fun  of  it,  or  simply  because  an  Indian  on 
the  warpath  meant  legitimate  game.  Will's  idea 
was  a  far  different  one.  He  realized  that  the 
Indians  had  their  claims,  that  they  had  their 
rights,  and  that  it  more  than  once  was  the  fault 
of  the  government  itself  that  they  were  forced 
to  the  warpath.  And  whenever  he  could,  Will 
sought  to  impress  upon  them  that  the  fighting 
game  was  a  hard  one  to  follow,  that  there  were 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  white  men  who 
could  be  brought  against  them  to  exterminate 
them,  even  as  the  buffalo  was  being  exterminated. 
He  tried  to  teach  them  that  the  white  man  would 
help  them  if  they  would  allow  themselves  to  be 
helped,  and  that  when  things  went  wrong  in  the 
governmental  way  of  running  things,  it  did  not 
always  mean  that  the  Indian  was  being  forgotten; 

192 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

that  there  were  those,  like  himself,  who  would 
strive  always  to  aid  and  to  make  the  Indian's 
life  on  the  plains  a  bearable  one.  It  was  thus 
that  he  won  the  friendship  of  such  Indians  as  No 
Neck  and  Woman's  Dress,  and  Red  Cloud  and 
Sitting  Bull  and  others  who,  in  turn,  helped  Cody 
more  than  once. 

But  he  also  experienced  the  sad  rewards  of  be- 
ing a  missionary.  Will  had  been  buying  horses 
and  among  them  he  had  purchased  a  racing  pony 
that  he  called  Powder  Face.  One  night,  as  we 
sat  in  the  little  log  cabin,  Will  scowled  and  looked 
at  his  fist. 

"That's  what  I  get  for  trying  to  be  good  to  an 
Injun,"  he  announced.  "Skinned  my  knuckles 
knocking  the  stuffing  out  of  him  to-day.  He  tried 
to  run  away  with  Powder  Face,  after  I'd  brought 
him  into  the  fort  so  that  he  could  see  that  soldiers 
wouldn't  hurt  him.  I " 

He  jumped  out  of  his  chair.  From  down  at 
the  corral  had  come  shouts  and  the  crackling  of 
a  revolver.  We  both  knew  what  it  meant — Will's 
entire  herd  of  horses  had  been  stampeded. 

He  was  out  of  the  house  in  an  instant  and  on 
the  way  to  the  fort  for  the  soldiers.  A  short 
time  later  I  heard  them  clatter  by  the  house,  and 

193 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

then  the  sounds  faded  in  the  distance.  For  a  long 
time  I  waited,  but  there  came  no  sound  of  shots, 
no  evidence  of  conflict.  The  chase  was  to  be  a 
long  and  hard  one. 

It  was  not  until  late  the  next  afternoon  that 
Will  came  home  again,  tired,  bedraggled — but 
grinning.  Over  his  saddle  hung  two  war  bonnets, 
their  eagle  feathers  trailing  nearly  to  the  ground. 
I  called  to  him  as  he  approached. 

"Did  you  find  Powder  Face?" 

"Find  him?"  he  shouted  back.  "That  horse 
was  over  the  Great  Divide  before  we  even  got 
started.  But  I  made  a  record.  Two  Injuns  at 
one  shot!" 

"Two  what?"  I  asked  in  astonishment  as  he 
descended  from  his  horse  and  came  to  the 
door,  trailing  the  war  bonnets  behind  him.  He 
chuckled. 

"Two  Injuns.  We  caught  up  with  most  of 
the  bunch  about  daylight  this  morning.  Two  of 
the  critters  were  riding  one  of  my  horses  and  I 
knew  there  was  only  one  way  to  get  'em  off.  So  I 
just  pulled  the  trigger  and  I'm  blamed  if  the 
bullet  didn't  go  through  both  of  'em!"  Then  his 
face  grew  long.  "We  got  all  the  horses  back 
but  Powder  Face.  I'm  sure  sorry  about  him. 

194. 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

He'd  have  won  me  all  kinds  of  money  when  the 
racing  started  in  the  spring." 

"And  he  might  have  lost  some  for  you,  too,"  I 
laughed.  For  betting  his  last  cent  on  the  horse 
of  his  pride  was  Will's  greatest  amusement.  And 
sometimes  he  lost! 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOWEVER,  right  then,  there  were  things  to  take 
Will's  mind  off  the  loss  of  his  favorite  pony.  One 
of  them  was  the  fact  that  midwinter  had  come 
and  that  Christmas  was  only  a  few  weeks  off. 
For  Will  had  been  deputized  by  the  soldiers  and 
officers  to  be  the  official  messenger  who  should 
go  to  Cheyenne  and  return  with  the  necessities 
of  the  Christmas  season. 

And  what  excitement  there  was  about  it  all! 
In  that  great  camp,  where  lived  the  men  who 
guarded  the  West,  were  only  three  children- 
three  girls,  the  band-leader's  child,  Mrs.  Mac- 
Donald's  little  daughter,  and  Arta.  And  for 
them  the  soldiers  had  saved  their  money  that  they 
might  have  a  real  Christmas,  and  Will  was  to  be 
the  official  messenger  to  Santa  Claus. 

I'll  never  forget  all  the  conferences  that  were 
held.  Night  after  night,  Mrs.  MacDonald  in  her 
little  cabin,  the  band-leader's  wife  up  at  the  fort, 
and  myself,  would  lead  the  thoughts  of  our  chil- 
dren around  to  Christmas,  that  we  might  learn 

196 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  things  that  they  most  desired.  Certainly  that 
was  not  a  hard  thing  to  do,  and  one  by  one  we 
gained  the  information  we  sought.  Some  of  their 
wishes  were  entirely  beyond  the  range  of  possi- 
bility— but  where  is  the  child  who  does  not  desire 
the  impossible?  And  so  it  was  with  Arta  and  her 
two  little  comrades. 

However,  at  last  Will  made  his  start  toward 
Cheyenne,  with  the  whole  long  list,  and  with  a 
face  that  was  longer.  He  was  going  to  face  that 
worst  of  ordeals — shopping.  However,  he  was 
brave  about  it. 

"Don't  know  what  they're  going  to  say  when 
I  walk  in  out  there  and  ask  for  chiney  dolls  and 
all  those  other  things  out  of  Godey's  Lady's 
Book"  he  announced.  "But  I'll  do  my  best. 
I'll  bring  back  the  bacon  or  bust!" 

And  so  he  rode  away,  while  we  three  women 
turned  our  attention  to  the  plans  for  the  Christ- 
mas day  entertainment. 

Of  course,  there  must  be  speaking,  and  each 
of  us  picked  out  the  piece  we  wanted  our  little 
girls  to  recite.  I  chose  "The  Star  of  Bethlehem," 
and  night  after  night,  while  Will  was  away,  I 
trained  Arta  in  her  recitation,  outlining  each  lit- 
tle gesture,  showing  her  how  to  emphasize  every 

197 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

word.  I  was  terribly  proud  of  her,  for  I  felt  that 
her  piece  would  be  the  prettiest  of  all — and,  well, 
you  know  the  natural  pride  of  a  mother. 

Therefore,  it  was  with  glowing  eyes  that  I 
greeted  Will  when  he  came  back  from  Cheyenne, 
loaded  down  with  packages,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
wagon  which  followed  him.  It  was  two  days  be- 
fore Christmas.  Up  at  the  fort  the  soldiers  had 
been  working,  sending  out  details  into  the  plains 
to  find  the  prettiest  little  pine  trees  possible,  to 
be  placed  about  the  big  assembly  hall — and  I 
knew  that  the  whole  setting  would  be  wonderful 
for  my  little  triumph. 

So,  when  Will  had  shown  me  all  the  presents 
he  had  brought  for  Arta  from  the  big  trading- 
post,  the  rag  dolls,  the  bright  bits  of  silk,  the 
little  train  of  cars  and  the  inevitable  fire  engine ; 
the  woolly  dog  and  the  other  gee-gaws  that  had 
found  their  way  into  the  Far  West,  I  told  him 
of  my  accomplishment.  Then  I  added: 

"Now,  Will" — I  stuffed  the  copy  of  the  poem 
into  his  hand — "you'll  just  have  to  look  after 
the  final  training.  If  Arta  doesn't  study  right 
up  until  the  last  minute,  she'll  be  just  like  all 
other  children.  She'll  get  up  there  to  speak  her 

198 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

piece  and  then  won't  remember  it.    That  would 
be  awful,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Sure  would,"  he  agreed  earnestly.  "But  why 
don't  you  do  the  rehearsin'?" 

"Because,  silly,  I'll  have  to  work  up  at  the 
hall.  My  goodness,  all  those  soldiers  have  been 
piling  stuff  in  there  for  a  week,  and  land  only 
knows  what  we're  going  to  do  with  it!  They 
think  that  all  there  is  to  fixing  up  Christmas 
decorations  is  to  go  out  somewhere  and  cut  down 
a  tree.  Only  women  can  look  after  those  things 
properly;  besides,  there's  the  popcorn  to  string 
and  the  trees  to  decorate,  and  everything  like 
that !  Gracious,  we'll  be  worked  to  death  looking 
after  everything,  to  say  nothing  of  all  the  cooking 
to  'tend  to.  And  you  haven't  a  blessed  thing  to 
do — so  you  can  just  finish  teaching  Arta  that 
recitation." 

"But  suppose  the  Injuns  break  out?"  he  asked 
lugubriously. 

"Well,  that'll  be  different.  But,  so  far,  they 
haven't  broken  out,  and,  Will,  you've  just  got 
to  help  me.  Now  won't  you?" 

He  bobbed  his  head  with  sudden  acquiescence, 
and  began  to  stare  at  the  paper  which  I  had 
shoved  into  his  hand. 

199 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

'Til  start  to-morrow,"  he  promised  faithfully. 
The  next  morning  I  went  to  the  fort  to  help  the 
other  women  with  the  decorations  for  our  first 
really  big  Christmas  on  the  plains. 

How  we  worked!  How  we  schemed  and  con- 
trived to  make  that  big  hall  look  like  a  Christmas 
back  home !  All  in  one  day,  there  was  everything 
to  do — and  very  little  to  do  it  with.  This  was 
different  from  the  land  of  civilization.  There  was 
no  store  to  run  to  for  an  armful  of  tinsel,  no  dec- 
orator's shops  to  furnish  holly  and  mistletoe  and 
Christmas  wreaths.  The  wreaths  that  hung  upon 
the  walls  we  made  ourselves.  The  bright  red 
berries  that  spotted  them  here  and  there  were 
hard-rolled  bits  of  red  paper;  the  greenery  every- 
where had  come  fresh  from  the  buttes  and  knolls 
of  the  plains,  with  here  and  there  a  few  cactus 
spines  thrown  in  to  make  things  more  difficult. 

The  popcorn  had  long  lain  in  the  bins  at  Char- 
lie MacDonald's  trading-post.  It  burnt,  it 
parched,  it  did  everything  but  pop.  A  hand- 
picked  proposition  was  every  puffy  ball  which 
went  upon  the  strings,  gleaned  from  skillets  full 
of  brown,  burned  kernels  that  had  persistently 
refused  to  pop,  to  do  anything  in  fact  but  scorch 
and  smoke  and  instigate  coughing  and  sneezing. 

200 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

But  we  were  determined  to  have  a  regulation 
Christmas,  and  a  few  difficulties  were  not  going 
to  stop  us. 

All  day  long  we  worked,  and  far  into  the  night, 
hanging  the  various  bits  of  greenery,  cooking  on 
the  old  range  that  slumped  in  one  end  of  the  hall, 
or  decorating  the  trees.  The  soldiers,  gawking 
here  and  there  about  the  big  room,  did  their  best 
to  help  us,  but  where  is  the  man  who  is  a  particle 
of  good  at  Christmastide?  Every  time  we  would 
make  a  gain  on  the  popcorn,  one  of  them  would 
come  along  and  steal  a  handful,  and  then  we 
would  have  to  run  them  all  out  of  the  hall,  laugh- 
ing in  spite  of  our  vexation,  and  start  all  over. 
We  knew  the  feeling  in  the  hearts  of  those  men 
— they  were  children  again,  children  back  home, 
preparing  for  Christmas! 

Late  into  the  night  we  cooked  and  slaved,  while 
our  husbands  waited  for  us,  in  a  nodding  line  at 
one  side  of  the  hall.  At  last  it  all  was  nearly 
done,  and  with  Will  I  started  home. 

"How  did  Arta  get  along  with  her  piece  to- 
day?" I  asked. 

"Oh,  fine!"  Will  looked  straight  ahead.  "I 
taught  her  and  taught  her." 

"She  won't  forget  it?" 
201 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"No  sirree!    She's  got  it  down  line  for  line." 

I  went  to  bed  happy  and  expectant.  Arta 
would  look  so  sweet  to-morrow.  Will  had 
brought  her  a  pretty  little  plaid  dress  from 
Cheyenne  that  fitted  her  wonderfully  well,  con- 
sidering that  a  man  had  picked  it  out.  Of  course, 
there  was  the  necessity  for  a  little  taking  up  here 
and  a  little  letting  out  there,  but  I  could  get  up 
early  in  the  morning  and  do  that  before  time  to 
hurry  to  the  hall  again. 

So  at  dawn  I  was  at  work  and,  finally,  to 
awaken  Will  with  breakfast  and  with  the  infor- 
mation that  he  must  be  the  one  to  dress  Arta 
and  bring  her  to  the  hall.  I  would  be  working 
there  until  the  very  last  minute,  and  I  simply 
wouldn't  have  time  to  come  back  to  the  house. 
Will  did  not  object. 

"I'll  have  her  dressed  up  like  all  get  out!"  was 
his  cheerful  announcement.  "I  sure  want  her  to 
make  that  speech  to-day!" 

"And  so  do  I.  Goodness,  won't  it  be  just  too 
lovely  if  she's  the  best  one  there?" 

"If?"  my  husband  questioned.  "Why,  there 
ain't  any  doubt  about  it.  I  bet  Arta  gets  more 
hand-clappin'  and  shoutin'  and  that  sort  of  thing 
when  she  does  her  little  trick  than  both  of  those 

202 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

other  children  put  together.  Now,  just  you 
watch  her !  I'm  handling  that  end  of  it  and  she's 
got  all  those  lines  down  pat!" 

"Well,  don't  you  forget  to  go  over  it  two  or 
three  times,"  I  ordered  as  I  kissed  him  and  hur- 
ried to  the  door. 

"Oh,  we'll  go  over  it  a  lot  of  times!"  he  as- 
sured me.  "Just  wait  'til  you  hear  it!" 

I  rushed  to  the  hall,  again  to  work,  again  to 
scheme  and  devise.  Then,  somewhat  flustered,  I 
seated  myself  as  the  time  for  the  entertainment 
approached  and  the  soldiers  thumped  into  the 
hall.  Will,  dressed  in  his  usual  buckskin  and 
flannel  shirt,  found  me  sitting  near  the  rear  of 
the  long  lines  of  chairs  and  immediately  assisted 
me  to  my  feet. 

"What?"  he  asked.  "Sitting  back  here?  No 
sirree!  We're  going  right  up  with  the  mourners!" 

"Mourners?" 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  Up  on  the 
front  row  where  everybody  can  see  us  when  Arta 
makes  that  speech.  Got  it  all  down  pat,  haven't 
you,  Arta?"  He  beamed  down  at  her. 

"Yes,  Papa,"  she  lisped,  and  a  feeling  of  great 
pride  swelled  through  me.  Up  to  the  front  row 
we  went,  while  the  hall  filled,  and  the  Santa 

203 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Claus  of  the  fort,  resplendent  in  a  red  flannel 
shirt  hanging  straight  from  the  waist,  a  pair  of 
riding  boots  that  reached  above  his  knees,  and 
cotton  whiskers  and  hair,  filched  from  the  post 
surgeon,  distributed  the  presents.  One  after  an- 
other they  were  called  out,  first  the  presents  for 
the  children,  and  then  the  ones  for  the  soldiers. 
There  were  paper  dolls  and  baby  rattles  and  a 
hundred  and  one  foolish  things  that  Will  had 
bought  in  Cheyenne  and  packed  across  the  weary 
miles ;  bottles  of  beer  with  vinegar  in  them,  tiny 
kegs  labeled  in  chalk:  "Finest  Whisky,"  and  dis- 
closing when  opened  only  carpet  tacks,  and 
everything  else  foolish  that  men  can  think  of. 
One  by  one  they  were  all  doled  out,  and  then, 
following  the  booming  of  the  post  quartette,  the 
singing  of  a  solo  by  the  band-leader's  wife,  and  a 
speech  on  Christmas  by  the  Major,  the  recitations 
began. 

Mrs.  MacDonald's  little  girl  came  first,  and 
had  I  not  known  what  a  really  wonderful  pres- 
entation Arta  would  make,  I  would  have  been 
really  jealous.  Then  followed  the  band-leader's 
daughter,  with  her  little  recitation,  and  then— 

Arta! 

Her  father  carried  her  up  to  the  platform, 
204 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

squared  her  around,  patted  her  on  the  cheeks  and 
hurried  back  to  his  seat.  My  heart  thumped  with 
excitement.  It  was  Arta's  first  recitation.  Pret- 
tily she  made  her  little  curtsy,  and  then,  with  a 
quick  glance  toward  her  father,  shei parted  her 
lips. 

But  the  words  that  came  forth!  My  pride 
changed  to  apprehension  and  then  to  wildest  dis- 
may. For  Arta  was  reciting  something  that  I 
never  had  heard  before,  something  only  a  few 
lines  in  length,  that  ran: 

The  lightning  roared, 

The  thunder   flashed, 

And  broke  my  mother's  teapot 

A-1-l-t-o-s-m-a-s-h ! 

Then  she  laughed,  clapped  her  little  hands  and, 
running  to  her  father,  leaped  into  his  lap.  Will 
was  almost  rolling  off  his  chair.  The  tears  were 
running  down  his  cheeks,  his  face  was  as  red  as 
a  boiled  beet  and  he  was  shaking  with  laughter 
from  head  to  foot.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  big 
hall,  it  was  roaring  like  a  summer  thunderstorm, 
while  I,  like  Cardinal  Wolsey,  sat  alone  in  my 
fallen  greatness.  For  a  moment  there  was  only 
blank  dismay.  Then  I  looked  at  Will  and  under- 
stood. 

"Willie!"  I  exclaimed  dramatically,  "I'll  never 
205 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

speak  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live.  Never! 
Never  I  Never!" 

But  a  moment  later,  as  he  choked  down  his 
laughter,  to  boom  out  a  lump-de-de-lump  to  the 
tune  of  "Rock  of  Ages,"  the  closing  song  of 
the  celebration,  I  reached  over,  took  his  hand, 
squeezed  it — then  pressed  tight  my  lips  to  keep 
from  laughing  myself.  But  never  again  did  I 
trust  to  Will  the  task  of  rehearsing  a  child  in  its 
recitations ! 

However,  there  were  plenty  of  times  when  the 
laugh  could  go  around  the  other  way,  when  it 
would  be  I  who  would  chuckle  at  the  troubles  of 
my  husband.  One  of  them  came  shortly  after 
Christmas,  and  with  it  arrived  my  revenge. 

Will  had  come  home  all  excited — just  as  he  in- 
variably did  when  something  new  happened  in  his 
career.  This  time  he  was  staring  at  his  buckskin 
clothes  and  at  his  high  riding  boots. 

"Mamma,"  he  announced,  "guess  I'll  have  to 
be  getting  some  different  duds.  That's  all  there 
is  to  it — different  duds  for  a  man  of  a  high-up 
station.  I'm  a  judge  now." 

"A  judge  of  what?"  I  was  busy  with  the  cook- 
ing. Will  straightened  and  pounded  his  chest. 

"Why,  a  judge — a  regular  judge,  you  know. 
206 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

One  of  those  fellows  that  sits  on  a  bench  and 
doles  out  the  law.  Reckon  I'll  have  to  get  along 
without  the  bench,  but  it'll  be  all  right.  I'll " 

"How  about  getting  along  without  the  law?" 
I  laughed  over  my  shoulder.  Will  swelled  his 
chest. 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right.  I  know  as  much  law 
as  I  need  to  know  around  here.  It's  just  white 
man's  law  against  Injun  law,  and  you  give  the 
fellow  what  you  think's  right.  That's  the  way 
they  explained  it  to  me  up  at  the  fort.  You  see, 
there  isn't  any  justice  of  the  peace  here  and  so 
they  thought  I  would  make  the  likeliest  one  out 
of  the  bunch;  so  here  I  am,  Judge  Cody." 

I  didn't  say  anything  just  then.  And  I  didn't 
remind  Will  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  judge  for 
several  days.  But  I  had  said  a  good  many  things 
to  a  young  soldier  and  a  young  woman  who  I 
knew  had  been  thinking  about  getting  married. 
Among  the  things  that  I  pointed  out  to  them  was 
the  fact  that  not  every  one  could  have  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  married  by  Buffalo  Bill.  It 
took.  A  few  days  later  Will  walked  into  the 
house  to  find  the  soldier  and  his  wife-to-be  wait- 
ing, while  I  stood  at  the  girl's  side,  ready  to  give 
away  the  bride, 

207 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Will,"  I  announced,  "we've  been  waiting  for 
you." 

"For— for  what?"  I  could  see  Will  begin  to 
appear  a  bit  worried. 

"Why,  these  young  people  want  to  get  mar- 
ried. And  there  isn't  anybody  here  that  can 
marry  them  but  you." 

Will  blinked  for  a  second.  Then  he  nodded 
his  head  and  led  me  over  to  one  corner.  I  fol- 
lowed him  very  seriously. 

"Isn't  there  any  way  out  of  this?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  see  how,  Will.  They're  here  and— 

"Well,"  he  pressed  his  lips  tightly  together, 
"guess  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it.  Say,  we 
got  married  once.  What  did  the  minister  say?" 

"He  said  for  me  to  love,  honor  and  obey. 
That's  about  all  I  remember." 

"And  wasn't  there  something  about  'till  death 
do  us  part'?" 

"Of  course." 

"Well,"  and  he  reached  for  the  copy  of  the 
statutes  of  Nebraska  that  had  come  into  his  pos- 
session with  the  judgeship,  "I  guess  I'll  make  out. 
Anyway,  it  ought  to  all  be  in  here." 

But  evidently  it  wasn't.  There  were  statutes 
on  limitations  of  grazing  lands,  statutes  on  al- 

208 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

most  everything  that  went  with  a  young  state, 
but  there  wasn't  anything  on  marriage.  A  slow 
sweat  began  to  break  out  on  Will's  forehead. 
Now  and  then  he  looked  up  anxiously,  and  his 
tongue  scurried  over  his  lips.  Once  he  excused 
himself,  and  as  he  walked  into  the  kitchen  I  saw 
him  reaching  for  something  in  his  hip  pocket ;  he 
returned  licking  his  lips.  It  was  one  of  the  few 
times  that  Will  was  ever  forced  to  resort  to  Dutch 
courage.  Hurriedly  he  planted  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  and,  holding  the  Statutes  of 
Nebraska  upside  down,  made  the  pretense  of 
looking  at  them. 

"Line  up!"  he  ordered.  The  soldier  and  his 
bride-to-be  came  forward.  Will  poked  his  head 
toward  the  bridegroom. 

"Look  here!"  he  questioned,  "this  is  all  in 
earnest?" 

"Why — why,  of  course." 

"And  there  isn't  any  monkey-fooling  about  it 
anywhere?" 

"No— no,  sir." 

"All  right,  then.  Because  this  thing's  got  to 
stick.  I  take  it  you  two  want  to  be  hitched  to 
run  in  double  harness  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"Yes,  sir." 

209 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Fine.  You're  going  to  take  this  woman  to  be 
your  lawful  wedded  wife  and  support  her  and 
see  that  she's  got  a  house  to  live  in  and  everything 
like  that?" 

"I  do!"  By  this  time  the  bridegroom  was  so 
flustered  that  he  would  have  given  an  affirmative 
answer  to  anything.  Will  turned  to  the  bride. 

"And  you  take  this  man  to  be  your  lawful 
wedded  husband  and  you'll  love,  honor  and  obey 
him  and  cook  his  meals  and  tend  to  the  house?" 

"I  do." 

"That  just  about  settles  it.  Join  hands.  I 
now  pronounce  you  man  and  wife.  Whoever  God 
and  Buffalo  Bill  have  joined  together,  let  no  man 
put  asunder.  Two  dollars,  please,  and" — Will 
ran  a  finger  about  the  collar  of  his  buckskin  coat 
— "if  you'll  please  pardon  your  husband  for  just 
a  minute,  he  and  I  will  go  and  have  a  drink!" 

However,  that  was  simple  in  comparison  to  the 
next  task  which  faced  Will  as  a  justice  of  the 
peace.  This  time  it  was  not  a  question  of  joining 
two  persons  in  wedlock,  but  of  breaking  the  bands 
which  held  them. 

They  were  a  man  and  woman  who  recently  had 
come  to  camp,  and  their  quarrels  had  been  fre- 
quent ever  since  their  arrival.  At  last  came  the 

210 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

day  when  they  knocked  on  the  door  of  our  little 
cabin  and  came  stalking  in,  glowering  at  each 
other.  The  man  stared  hard  at  Will. 

"Bill  Cody,"  he  snapped,  "you  do  lawin',  don't 
you?" 

"Off  and  on,"  said  Will.    "What's  wrong?" 

"There's  a  hull  lot.  Me  and  her  ain't  agreein'. 
We  want  a  divorce." 

"A  who?"    Will  had  craned  his  neck  forward. 

"A  divorce.  I  ain't  satisfied  with  her  and  she 
ain't  satisfied  with  me.  It's  pull  an'  tug,  tug  an' 
pull,  all  th'  time.  And  we  want  t'  get  unhitched." 

Once  more  Will  reached  for  his  Statutes  of 
Nebraska.  Once  more  he  thumbed  the  pages. 
He  turned  the  book  foreside  backwards,  upside 
down,  over  and  around  again. 

"What  was  it  you  said  you  wanted?"  he  asked 
again,  this  time  more  anxiously. 

"A  divorce.  We  want  to  get  unhitched.  Ain't 
that  it,  Sarah?" 

Sarah  agreed  emphatically  that  it  was.  Will 
nodded  his  head  judiciously,  and  moistened  a 
finger. 

"Um-humph,"  he  grunted.  "Divorce — di- 
vorce, Page  363,  Paragraph  6.  Um-humph." 
The  pages  turned  again.  Then  Will  squared 

211 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

himself.  "  'No  divorce  shall  be  granted/  "  he 
read,  "  'unless' — humph!  Guess  maybe  we'd  just 
better  leave  out  that  'unless.'  'No  divorces  shall 
be  granted.'  That  sounds  pretty  good.  Says  so 
right  here  in  the  book.  'Course  they  shouldn't. 
'Tain't  natural.  Now,  look  here,  Charlie,  you 
ain't  as  bad  off  as  you  think  you  are.  Sarah  cooks 
good  meals,  don't  she?" 

"Larrupin',"  agreed  Charlie. 

"And — Mamma!"  Will  turned  suddenly  and 
called  to  me,  "take  Sarah  off  there  in  the  corner 
and  talk  to  her.  I've  got  a  few  words  to  say  to 
Charlie." 

Obediently  I  led  Sarah  away,  while  Will 
dragged  Charlie  over  behind  the  stove.  Long  we 
argued,  while  Sarah  told  me  the  story  of  all  her 
troubles,  stopping  now  and  then  to  remark  that 
everything  Charlie  was  saying  to  Will  was  the 
finest  collection  of  falsehoods  ever  fabricated.  An 
hour  passed.  Then  the  tears  began  to  flow  as 
Sarah  detailed  the  difficulties  of  sailing  the  mat- 
rimonial sea  with  Charlie  as  the  pilot.  Will  took 
one  look  at  her,  then  reaching  out  one  great  paw, 
he  seized  Charlie  by  the  coat  collar  and  yanked 
him  to  his  feet. 

"Look  at  that!"  he  shouted.  "Look  at  her  cry- 
212 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ing!    Now  you  just  hit  the  trail  over  there  and 
make  up!" 

Charlie  stood  and  sulked. 

"I'll  go  half  way,"  he  announced  finally.  Will 
turned  toward  me. 

"Give  Sarah  a  push!"  he  ordered. 

I  pushed  and  they  met  in  the  center  of  the 
room.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  a 
resounding  smack  of  lips.  Another  great  law 
case  had  been  settled,  and  Will  once  more  had 
established  himself  as  an  attorney  of  record. 
And,  what  is  more,  the  last  I  heard  of  the  sol- 
dier and  his  bride  and  of  Charlie  and  Sarah,  they 
still  were  making  their  way  along  life's  road, 
agreeably  hitched  in  the  Cody  brand  of  "double 
harness." 

And  most  of  Will's  cases  turned  out  in  about 
this  way.  Of  statutory  law  there  was  very  little, 
but  of  common  sense  there  was  a  great  deal. 
And  when  argument  failed 

I  remember  a  little  matter  that  concerned  the 
theft  of  a  Morse.  Two  men  claimed  it,  and  one 
asserted  that  the  other  had  stolen  it.  Will  reached 
for  old  "Lucretia  Borgia"  and  went  out  with  the 
claimant. 

He  found  the  new  possessor  of  the  horse  only 
a  few  miles  from  the  post. 

213 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Turn  over  that  horse,"  he  ordered. 

"Sure,"  the  man  had  taken  one  look  at  the  gun. 
Will  continued:  "Now,  listen,  there  ain't  any 
place  at  the  fort  that  ain't  full  up.  Haven't  got 
any  regular  jail,  and  I'm  blamed  if  I'll  put  you 
up  at  a  regular  house.  So  you're  fined  right  now. 
Fork  over  a  hundred  dollars." 

"For  what?"  The  horse  thief — if  he  was  one 
— was  becoming  obstinate. 

Will  shifted  his  gun. 

"Time  and  trouble  of  the  court  in  coming  out 
here  after  you,  and  costs  of  lawin'  in  Nebraska." 

"And  what'll  you  do  if  I  don't  fork  over?" 
The  defendant  was  preparing  to  dig  the  spurs 
into  his  own  horse.  Will  looked  blankly  at  the 
sky. 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  he  announced.  "I 
wouldn't  kill  you.  'Twouldn't  be  right,  seeing 
there's  some  dispute  about  this  horse  and  you 
really  didn't  steal  him;  just  sort  of  took  him,  as 
it  were.  So  I  won't  kill  you.  I'll — just  shoot 
a  leg  off." 

And  when  Will  came  home,  he  brought  with 
him  a  hundred  dollars  in  gold,  "costs  of  the  case." 
Thus  was  law  administered  in  the  childhood  days 
of  the  broad  and  brawny  West. 


CHAPTER  X 

ALL  this  time,  Will  was  becoming  more  and 
more  famous  throughout  the  East.  The  summer 
before,  while  guiding  a  party  of  Eastern  hunters, 
he  had  met  Elmo  Judson,  a  novelist  who  wrote 
under  the  name  of  Ned  Buntline,  and  had  given 
him  permission  to  write  stories  of  Will's  experi- 
ences in  fiction  form.  It  was  exactly  what  the 
Eastern  public  had  been  waiting  for,  and  now, 
every  week,  some  new  thrilling  story,  in  which 
Buffalo  Bill  rescued  maidens  in  distress,  killed 
off  Indians  by  the  score  and  hunted  buffalo  in 
his  sleep,  appeared  in  the  romantic  magazines. 
Much  of  it,  while  founded  on  fact,  was  wildly 
fantastic  in  its  treatment,  and  the  most  surprised 
man  of  all  would  be  Will  himself  when  he  got 
the  month-old  periodicals  and  read  of  his  hair- 
raising  adventures.  But  it  all  had  its  effect.  The 
East  began  to  call  for  Buffalo  Bill — to  demand 
Buffalo  Bill.  But  Buffalo  Bill  had  just  attended 
a  horse  race — time  had  now  gone  on  toward  mid- 
summer— and  Buffalo  Bill  had  guessed  on  the 

215 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

wrong  horse.    Then  with  the  winter  came  another 
visit  from  royalty. 

This  time  it  was  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis,  who, 
with  his  retinue,  traveled  westward  for  a  real  shot 
at  a  buffalo.  A  month  before  his  coming,  while 
Will  was  out  on  a  scouting  expedition,  I  deter- 
mined that  there  would  be  no  more  visits  from 
Indians,  and  that,  this  time,  my  kitchen  would 
have  some  protection.  I  went  to  the  fort. 

"Major,"  I  said,  "I'd  like  to  have  some  wood." 

"For  what?" 

"I  want  to  build  a  fence." 

The  Major  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
laughed. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Cody !  Every  finger  will  be  black 
and  blue !  Don't  you  know  that  a  woman  can't 
handle  a  hammer?" 

I  laughed. 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "the  last  time  Will  was 
out  on  a  scouting  expedition,  and  I  wanted  some- 
thing to  pass  the  time,  I  built  myself  a  kitchen 
table.  And  if  I  can  do  that,  I  can  build  a  fence." 

"But  I'll  send  some  soldiers  down  to  do  it." 

"Send  the  soldiers  down  with  the  wood  and 
I'll  attend  to  the  rest." 

The  Major  scratched  his  head. 
216 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Blessed  if  there's  any  wood  in  camp,"  he  said 
at  last.  "Except — well,"  and  he  smiled — 
"whisky  comes  in  wooden  barrels,  and  the  can- 
teen seems  to  be  doing  a  rushing  business.  I 
might  let  you  have  some  barrel  staves." 

So  thus  it  was  that  our  little  log  cabin  came  to 
have  a  picket  fence  in  honor  of  the  visit  of  Grand 
Duke  Alexis.  And  every  picket  in  that  enclosure 
was  a  barrel  stave!  What  was  more,  every  one 
had  been  firmly  put  into  place  by  Buffalo  Bill's 
wife — I  wanted  to  be  sure  that  no  Indians  were 
coming  in  to  eat  up  my  cakes  and  pies  and  game 
meats  this  time ! 

It  was  a  wonderful  day  at  the  fort  when  the 
Grand  Duke  and  his  retinue  arrived.  By  cramp- 
ing every  foot  of  space,  we  managed  some  way 
to  get  them  all  about  the  table  in  our  little  log 
house,  but  when  it  came  to  the  reception  that  fol- 
lowed, that  was  a  different  matter.  We  had  to 
hold  it  in  the  yard,  in  the  confines  of  the  picket 
fence — although  such  a  thing  as  boundaries  made 
little  difference.  The  day  was  balmy,  and  every 
one  at  the  fort  was  there  at  one  time  or  another. 

Finally  the  Grand  Duke  and  his  hunting  party 
went  out  on  the  plains — and  the  Grand  Duke 
killed  a  buffalo.  It  was  the  greatest  achievement 

217 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

of  his  life.  Will  could  have  anything — anything 
in  the  world.  And  Will  named  the  one  thing 
that  had  entranced  him  as  much  as  the  thought 
of  killing  buffalo  had  entranced  the  Grand  Duke. 
He  wanted  to  go  back  East.  Grand  Duke  Alexis 
announced  that  the  wish  should  be  granted. 

Back  toward  New  York  went  the  Grand  Duke, 
and  then,  six  weeks  later,  came  a  letter.  Will 
opened  it  and  stared,  half  frightened,  toward  me. 
A  long  strip  ticket  was  in  the  envelope.  It  was 
a  railroad  ticket — a  ticket  back  East,  all  the  way 
to  New  York  and  a  pass  from  General  Sheridan. 
Will,  my  husband,  was  about  to  have  his  Biggest 
Adventure! 

Somewhat  wildly  he  looked  at  his  clothes,  his 
buckskin  coat,  his  fringed  leggins,  his  heavy  re- 
volver holster  and  red  flannel  shirt. 

"Mamma,"  he  exclaimed  woefully,  "I  can't 
wear  this  rigout.  I'll — I'll  have  to  have  some- 
thing else." 

With  that  started  a  feverish  week  for  Mrs. 
Buffalo  Bill.  Hurriedly  we  procured  some  blue 
cloth  at  the  commissary  and,  sewing  day  and 
night,  I  made  Will  his  first  real  soldier  suit,  with 
a  Colonel's  gold  braid  on  it,  with  stripes  and  cords 
and  all  the  other  gingerbread  of  an  old-fashioned 

218 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

suit  of  "blues";  dear,  patient,  boyish  Will  sitting 
anxiously  to  one  side,  then  rising  to  try  on  the 
partially  completed  garment,  getting  pins  stuck 
in  him,  squirming  and  twisting,  then  sitting  down 
again  to  wait  for  another  fitting.  More  than  once 
as  he  waited  his  eyes  would  grow  wistful,  and 
there  would  come  a  peculiar  downward  pull  to 
his  lips,  as  he  stared  out  the  window  into  the  far- 
away. 

"Mamma,"  he  would  say  time  after  time,  "I 
wish  you  were  going  along  with  me.  I'm  going 
to  be  as  scared  as  a  jackrabbit  back  there  1  I 
wish  you  were  going  along." 

But  there  was  a  beautiful  little  reason  why  I 
could  not  accompany  him;  and  so,  the  sewing 
completed,  the  last  basting  thread  pulled  out  of 
his  new  uniform,  I  accompanied  him  to  the  stage 
landing,  and  watched  him  ride  away.  And  never 
did  Buffalo  Bill  riding  out  to  the  danger  of  death 
look  like  the  Buffalo  Bill  who  rode  away  that  day. 
He  held  me  tight,  so  tight  that  his  fingers  bit 
into  my  arms,  as  he  said  good-by.  And  then 

"I  sure  wish  you  were  going  along." 

A  kiss.  A  cloud  of  dust  as  the  horses  galloped 
away.  A  waving  hand,  fading  in  the  distance, 

219 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

My  husband  had  gone,  gone  to  a  land  uncharted 
for  him,  unfamiliar  and  strange. 

Two  months  and  he  was  back,  booming  and 
happy.  He  pulled  the  free  air  into  his  lungs  like 
a  bellows.  He  patted  my  cheeks,  he  kissed  me, 
walked  away,  hurried  back  and  kissed  me  again. 

"Mamma!"  he  exclaimed,  "they  almost  scared 
me  to  death  back  there.  They  swished  me  here, 
there,  yonder  and  back  again;  they  took  me  in 
places  where  the  lights  were  so  bright  that  I 
could  hardly  see,  and  where  women  looked  at  me 
through  spyglasses  like  I  was  one  of  those  little 
bugs  that  WhatVHis-Name,  the  Professor,  used 
to  look  at  so  much  through  that  telescope  last 
summer.  Gosh,  I  was  scared.  Couldn't  say  a 
word.  Just  couldn't  say  a  word,  Mamma,  only 
just  stand  there  while  they  stared  at  me.  Guess 
they  expected  me  to  pull  out  a  couple  of  shootin' 
irons  and  put  out  all  the  lights.  Gosh,  I  was 
scared!" 

And  so  it  was  that  when  a  letter  came  from 
Elmo  Judson,  telling  Will  how  much  money  he 
could  make  by  going  on  the  stage,  Will  simply 
laid  it  aside  and  whooped. 

"A  whole  hall  full  of  women  looking  at  me 
through  those  spyglasses!"  he  exclaimed.  "Not 

220 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

much !  Out  here  in  the  West  is  good  enough  for 
me.  Why,  Mamma,  I'm  such  a  tenderfoot  right 
now  from  being  away,  that  I'd  run  if  I  even  saw 
an  Injun!" 

But  a  few  days  changed  all  that.  At  the  next 
call  of  "boots  and  saddles,"  there  was  Will,  home 
again,  leading  the  galloping  procession  as  it  raced 
out  upon  the  plains,  the  fringe  of  his  buckskin 
flying  in  the  wind,  his  broad  hat  flapping,  his 
eyes  as  keen  and  as  bright  as  ever,  his  finger  ever 
ready  at  the  trigger  for  the  sight  of  the  Enemy 
of  the  Plains. 

It  was  while  Will  was  out  on  one  of  these  ex- 
peditions that  the  reason  which  had  kept  me  from 
going  to  New  York  became  a  reality.  Will  re- 
turned to  find  the  house  full  of  soldiers  and  the 
women  of  the  settlement,  all  of  them  excited  with 
an  event  far  greater  than  that  of  the  biggest  kind 
of  an  Indian  raid.  It  was  a  tiny  little  baby  boy, 
and  already  the  suggestions  for  names  had  run 
all  the  way  from  Archimedes  to  Zeno.  Will's 
voice  had  a  new  note  in  it  as  he  came  to  my  bed- 
side, and  the  visitors  drew  away  that  we  might 
be  alone  with  our  newest  treasure.  Gently  Will 
touched  the  baby's  cheek,  then  kissed  me. 

"A  boy,"  he  said  softly.  "A  boy!  I  want 
221 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

him  to  grow  up  to  be  a  real  man,  Mamma.  A 
boy!  He'll  carry  on  the  work  when  his  Daddy 
leaves  off.  He'll  be  the  one  to  see  the  West  that 
his  Daddy  wants  to  build.  A  boy!" 

I  really  believe  it  was  the  greatest  moment  in 
Will  Cody's  life.  He  was  to  meet  kings,  he  was 
to  be  entertained  by  royalty  all  over  the  world, 
he  was  to  become  the  idol  of  every  child  who  could 
read  the  name  of  Buffalo  Bill,  but  never  shone 
there  the  light  in  my  husband's  eyes  as  shone  that 
day  in  the  little  log  cabin,  as  he  gently  kissed  our 
baby's  cheek  and  repeated  over  and  over  again: 

"A  boy!    Daddy's  boy!    Daddy's  boy!" 

Soon,  however,  the  assembled  Fort  McPher- 
son  decided  that  we  had  been  alone  long  enough. 
There  were  great  things  to  be  mastered,  such  as 
a  selection  from  the  hundred  or  more  names  and, 
above  all,  the  proper  arrangements  for  a  christen- 
ing. Babies  were  indeed  far  between  in  the  West 
of  those  days,  and  especially  brand  new  ones. 
Already  couriers  were  making  ready  for  a  hurry- 
ing trip  to  Cheyenne  for  a  rocking  crib,  for  the 
proper  amount  of  baby  rattles,  teething  rings  and 
playthings.  And  by  this  time,  Will  had  joined 
in  on  the  general  excitement  of  seeking  a  name. 

"Tell  you  what!"  he  announced  with  a  great 
222 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

inspiration,  "we'll  name  him  after  Judson. 
That'll  tickle  Judson  to  death.  Yes,  sir;  that's 
it.  Elmo  Judson  Cody!  That's  what  we'll  name 
him." 

"We  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind,  Will,"  I 
announced  with  the  woman's  prerogative.  "You 
know  you  always  said  you  liked  the  name  of  Kit 
Carson." 

Will  stopped  and  stared. 

"  'Course  I  did.  Whoever  started  this  Judson 
idea?  Hello,  Kit!" 

A  big  finger  was  wiggled  in  the  baby's  face, 
and  the  name  was  settled.  However,  that  didn't 
mean  that  the  christening  was  over.  Far  from 
it.  Two  weeks  of  preparation  and  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  fort  again  gathered  in  the  assembly 
hall  where  I  had  met  my  Waterloo  as  a  manip- 
ulator of  "speakin'  pieces."  Gravely  the  soldiers 
lined  up  while  Cody  and  I  carried  the  baby  before 
the  Major.  And  thereupon  the  child  was  offi- 
cially announced  to  be  Kit  Carson  Cody.  And 
with  the  last  words 

"Aw-w-w-w  right!  Grab  yo'  podners  for  the 
quad-rille!" 

Up  on  the  rostrum  the  band  began  to  blare. 
There  were  not  enough  women  to  go  round,  but 

223 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

a  trifling  deficiency  like  that  made  little  differ- 
ence. Where  places  were  vacant,  soldiers  filled 
them,  and  the  dance  went  on,  while  Will,  bounc- 
ing our  new  baby  in  his  arms  until  my  heart  al- 
most popped  from  my  throat  with  fright,  took  his 
"spell"  at  relieving  the  dance  caller,  and  the 
bandmen  played  until  their  eyes  seemed  to  fairly 
hang  out  upon  their  cheeks.  And  right  in  the 
midst  of  it  all 

"Tya-tay-de-tya !" 

"Boots  and  saddles!"  Will  rushed  toward  me 
and  planted  the  baby  in  my  arms.  Soldiers  left 
the  hall  by  doors  and  windows.  A  second  and 
the  place  was  empty  except  for  the  women  of  the 
fort,  while  out  upon  the  grounds  the  first  of  the 
cavalry  already  was  beginning  to  clatter  into  po- 
sition. A  few  moments  more,  band,  dance  caller, 
proud  father,  christener  and  all,  they  were  gal- 
loping away,  while  we  poor  women  had  to  walk 
back  home,  our  celebration  gone  glimmering.  In- 
dians were  a  nuisance  in  those  days ! 

In  fact,  they  continued  to  be  a  nuisance,  for 
soon  came  another  of  their  sporadic  outbreaks  on 
the  warpath.  Time  after  time  Will  was  called 
out,  while  I  waited  to  watch  for  him  at  the  win- 
dow, only  to  see  at  last  his  great  form  leading 

224 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

all  the  others  as  he  hurried  home  to  Arta,  Kit 
Carson  and  me.  But  at  last  came  the  time  when 
he  rode  slowly,  and  lowered  himself  gingerly  from 
the  saddle.  One  quick,  flashing  look  and  I  was 
out  the  door  and  hurrying  to  his  side.  There 
was  blood  on  his  face ! 

"Thought  I  was  Injun-proof!"  he  laughed 
weakly.  "Guess  I  was  fooled.  Didn't  know  In- 
juns could  shoot  so  straight." 

Fearfully  I  took  him  into  the  house  and 
awaited  the  visit  of  the  army  surgeon.  How- 
ever, before  medical  aid  could  get  him,  Will  had 
regained  his  strength,  washed  the  blood  from  the 
scalp  wound  in  his  head,  tied  himself  up  with  a 
Turkish  towel  that  made  him  look  like  some  sort 
of  East  Indian,  and  was  bellowing  away  at  a 
song,  Arta  on  one  knee  and  Kit  Carson  on  the 
other.  It  was  the  one  and  only  wound  that  my 
husband  ever  received,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
never  was  there  an  Indian  fight  in  which  he  par- 
ticipated that  he  was  not  in  the  hottest  of  it, 
never  a  brush  with  the  savages  that  he  did  not 
return  with  a  new  notch  to  his  gun.  Once  upon 
a  time  I  sought  to  keep  track  of  the  number  of 
Indians  that  "bit  the  dust"  as  a  result  of  my  hus- 

225 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

band's  accurate  fire.  But  I  lost  count  long  be- 
fore his  fighting  days  were  over. 

But  withal,  it  was  a  happy,  care-free  life  we 
led,  with  just  enough  of  the  zest  of  danger  in  it 
to  keep  it  interesting,  just  enough  novelty  to  put 
an  edge  on  the  otherwise  dreary  life  of  the  plains. 
And  when  novelty  did  not  come  naturally,  Will 
made  it. 

Thus  it  was  that  one  day  he  asked  me  to  ac- 
company him  on  a  buffalo  hunt.  I  left  the  chil- 
dren with  Mrs.  MacDonald,  then  mounting, 
started  forth  with  my  husband,  only  to  notice  that 
his  rifle  was  missing.  In  its  stead  was  a  smooth, 
coiled  rope,  hanging  over  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle. 

"Going  to  try  something  new  to-day,"  he  an- 
nounced. "That's  why  I  thought  I'd  better  have 
you  along  with  a  gun.  I'm  going  to  lasso  a 
buffalo." 

"But,  Will!"  I  exclaimed,  "it  can't  be  done!" 

"You  mean  that  it  hasn't  been  done,"  he  cor- 
rected me,  then  urged  his  horse  forward.  In  the 
far  distance  was  the  black  smudge  that  presaged 
a  herd  of  buffalo. 

Fifteen  minutes  of  hard  riding  and  we  were 
upon  them.  Swiftly  Will  gave  me  his  commands, 

226 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

for  me  to  follow  at  an  angle  from  which  I  could 
ride  swiftly  forward  and  shoot  if  necessary,  while 
he  plunged  into  the  herd.  He  touched  the  spurs 
to  his  horse  and  shot  forward.  A  moment  more, 
riding  as  hard  as  I  could,  I  saw  that  Will  had  cut 
one  buffalo  out  from  the  great  mass,  and  was  pur- 
suing it  in  an  angling  direction  to  me,  his  lariat 
beginning  to  circle  over  his  head. 

Wider  and  wider  went  the  loop  of  the  lasso. 
Then  a  wide,  circling  swing  and  it  started  forth 
through  the  air. 

It  wavered.  It  hung  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 
Then  a  quick,  downward  shot  and  it  had  settled 
over  the  heavy,  bull  neck  of  the  buffalo,  while 
Will's  horse  spraddled  its  legs  and  prepared  for 
the  inevitable  pull  and  tumble. 

A  great  jerk,  while  the  rope  seemed  to  stretch 
and  strain.  Then  the  buffalo  rose  in  the  air, 
turned  a  complete  somersault,  and  was  on  its 
feet  again.  Once  again  Will  tumbled  it,  and 
again,  while  I  circled  about,  ready  for  the  fatal 
shot  in  case  the  lariat  should  break  and  the  mad- 
dened animal  turn  on  its  roper.  But  when  the 
bison  rose  from  its  third  tumble,  its  fight  was 
gone.  Placidly  it  allowed  itself  to  be  led  to  a 

227 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

tree  and  tied  there,  while  Will  sat  atop  his  horse 
and  chuckled. 

"  'Twasn't  so  hard  now,  was  it?"  he  asked. 
"Shucks,  I  thought  I  was  going  to  get  some  real 
excitement!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THUS  passed  a  year.  Then  another  big  event 
happened  in  our  lives.  In  fact,  two  of  them. 
One  was  the  birth  of  a  third  child,  the  second  to 
see  the  light  of  the  West  through  the  windows 
of  our  little  log  cabin.  Again  came  the  usual 
excitement  at  the  fort,  the  usual  christening  and 
the  dance.  This  time  the  baby  was  another  girl, 
and  we  named  her  Orra. 

The  second  great  event  was  a  series  of  letters 
from  Mr.  Judson  (Ned  Buntline),  each  more 
pressing  than  the  other  and  all  telling  of  the  for- 
tune that  could  be  made  if  Will  would  only  come 
back  East  and  be  an  actor.  During  the  time  of 
Will's  visit  to  New  York,  he  had  attended  the 
performance  of  a  dramatization  of  one  of  the 
stories  which  Ned  Buntline  had  written  about 
him.  Will  had  been  pointed  out  in  the  box,  with 
the  result  that  the  audience  had  called  on  him 
for  a  speech,  and  with  the  further  result  that  Will 
had  arisen,  flushed,  stammered  something  that  he 
couldn't  even  hear  himself,  and  seated  himself 

229 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

again,  worse  scared  than  any  Indian  who  ever 
faced  his  rifle.  And  so  now  that  Ned  Buntline 
was  really  suggesting  that  he,  Will  Cody,  appear 
on  the  stage  as  an  actor,  the  task  appeared  even 
more  difficult  than  ever. 

But  there  was  constant  temptation  in  the 
thought  of  the  money.  Letter  after  letter  came 
to  our  little  log  cabin,  telling  of  the  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  persons  who  were  waiting  to  see 
Buffalo  Bill  portrayed  in  some  wild  Western 
play,  and  portrayed  by  the  original  of  the  char- 
acter. Letter  after  letter  also  spoke  of  thousands 
of  dollars  as  though  they  were  mere  matters  that 
would  simply  flow  into  the  Cody  coffers  with  the 
arrival  of  Buffalo  Bill  in  the  East.  And  the  more 
Will  and  I  read,  the  more  we  were  tempted.  But 
just  the  same 

"Mamma,  I'd  be  awful  scared,"  he  said  to  me 
more  than  once.  "I'd  get  out  there  and  just  get 
glassy-eyed  from  looking  at  those  lights.  I 
couldn't  do  it.  I'd  just  naturally  be  tongue- 
tied." 

"Oh,  you  could  do  it  all  right,"  I  answered 
with  that  confidence  that  a  wife  always  has  in 
her  husband,  "but  is  play-acting  just  the  right 
thing?" 

230 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Shucks,  play-acting's  all  right  and "  Then 

he  stopped  and  looked  at  the  children,  Arta  grow- 
ing up  to  young  girlhood;  Kit  Carson,  his  ideal 
and  his  dream,  just  at  the  romping  age,  and 
Orra,  a  tiny  baby.  "And" — he  said  at  last — "if 
there  was  money,  it  would  mean  a  lot  for  them, 
Mamma.  It  would  mean  that  we  could  send 
them  to  fine  schools  and  have  everything  for  them 
that  we  wanted.  You  know,  I  didn't  get  much 
chance  to  go  to  school  when  I  was  a  boy.  And 
I  want  them  to  have  everything  I  missed." 

With  that,  the  great  problem  of  whether  or 
not  Will  Cody  should  become  an  actor  was  set- 
tled. It  was  further  disposed  of  when  Texas 
Jack  roamed  down  to  the  house,  heard  that  Will 
was  seriously  considering  the  Buntline  proposi- 
tion and  immediately  decided  that  he  would  like 
to  go  on  the  stage  himself.  Will,  wavering,  was 
strengthened. 

"Guess  I'll  write  to  Ned  and  tell  him  we're  just 
about  ready  to  be  roped  and  hog- tied,"  he  an- 
nounced, more  to  himself  than  any  one  else.  De- 
liberately he  sat  down  and  scratched  for  an  hour, 
finally  composing  a  letter  to  his  satisfaction. 
Then  he  sent  it  away  on  its  long  journey,  and  in 

the  meanwhile 

231 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

There  was  an  election.  And  who,  at  the  last 
minute,  should  be  decided  upon  as  a  fit  and 
proper  person  to  represent  the  Fort  McPherson 
district  in  the  state  legislature,  but  my  husband! 
There  wasn't  any  campaign;  Will  simply  an- 
nounced that  it  was  true  he  was  running,  but  that 
he  didn't  know  which  way.  There  were  not  many 
voters — every  one  of  them  knew  the  "Jedge"  as 
they  sometimes  jokingly  called  him,  personally 
— and  there  was  no  competition.  Will  was  just 
elected,  and  added  an  Honorable  to  his  name 
without  even  taking  the  trouble  to  make  an  elec- 
tion speech.  And  hardly  had  he  been  elected 
when  there  came  a  letter  from  Buntline  saying 
that  everything  was  rosy  in  the  East,  and  that  a 
fortune  awaited  Will  and  Texas  Jack  almost  the 
minute  they  stepped  into  Chicago. 

Will  looked  at  the  letter  and  then  dug  up  his 
certificate  of  election.  Carefully  he  weighed  the 
careers,  that  of  an  actor  in  one  hand,  that  of  a 
Solon  in  the  other.  Finally  he  looked  at  me  and 
chuckled. 

"Mamma,"  he  said,  *I  know  I'd  be  a  fizzle  at 
legislatin'.  I  don't  know  just  how  bad  I'd  be  at 
actin'.  I  guess  maybe  I'd  better  find  out." 

Whereupon  his  fate  was  settled  as  a  public 
232 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

servant.  As  for  Texas  Jack,  never  was  a  per- 
son happier,  for  Texas  Jack  had  absorbed  the 
stage  fever ;  he  wanted  to  be  an  actor,  and,  what 
was  more,  he  was  going  to  be  an  actor  whether 
the  audiences  said  he  could  act  or  not. 

What  excitement  there  was  after  the  decision 
was  made!  What  selling  off  of  horses,  of  furni- 
ture, even  to  the  kitchen  table  at  which  I  had 
hammered  and  banged  away  during  the  long  days 
in  the  little  old  cabin.  What  sewing  and  hopes 
and  dreams !  Will  resigned  as  a  scout,  as  a  Colo- 
nel, as  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  and  as  a  legislator. 
We  packed  our  grips  and  "telescopes,"  and  when 
the  stage  pulled  out  one  afternoon,  late  in  1872, 
there  we  were,  piled  in  it,  Will  and  Texas  Jack, 
myself  and  the  babies,  bound  for  the  adventures 
of  the  unknown. 

And  if  Will  and  Jack  only  had  known  what 
was  to  happen  when  they  reached  Chicago,  I 
don't  believe  that  stage  would  have  carried  us  ten 
feet.  Neither  of  them  ever  had  seen  more  than 
a  dozen  stage  plays  in  their  lives.  They  had  no 
idea  of  how  to  make  an  entrance  or  an  exit,  they 
did  not  know  a  cue  from  a  footlight,  and  they 
believed  that  plays  just  happened.  The  fact  that 
they  would  have  to  study  and  memorize  parts 

233 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

never    entered    their    heads.      And    what    was 
worse 

"All  right,  boys !"  It  was  Ned  Buntline,  greet- 
ing them  at  the  station  in  Chicago.  "We'll  do  a 
little  quick  work  now  and  have  this  play  on  by 
Monday  night." 

"Monday  night?"  They  both  stared  at  him — 
while  they  weren't  gawking  at  the  crowds,  the 
sizzling,  steaming  engines,  and  the  great  trucks 
of  baggage  passing  by.  "Ain't — ain't  that  rush- 
ing things  a  little?" 

Buntline  smiled. 

"It  is  going  a  little  fast,  but  you  fellows  ought 
to  be  accustomed  to  that.  Come  on  now.  We'll 
go  over  and  fix  up  for  the  theater." 

Texas  Jack  scratched  his  head. 

"I  thought  that'd  all  be  arranged  for." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.  The  owner's  got  to  see 
his  stars  first.  So  come  on." 

"But — who  all's  going  to  be  with  us  in  this 
rigout?" 

"The  company?"  They  were  in  the  hack  now, 
bound  for  the  amphitheater.  "Oh,  I  haven't 
given  that  a  thought.  But  there  are  plenty 
of  actors  around  town.  Don't  worry  a  minute 
about  them." 

234 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

But  both  Jack  and  Will  did  a  good  deal  of 
worrying.  Evidently  the  manager  of  the  amphi- 
theater felt  the  same  way  about  it. 

"When  are  you  going  to  have  your  rehearsals?" 
he  asked  after  Buntline  had  outlined  a  possible 
contract  to  him. 

"To-morrow." 

"Why  to-morrow?  There's  no  one  on  the  stage 
this  afternoon  and  time's  getting  short.  This  is 
Wednesday,  and  if  you're  going  to  open  next 
Monday,  you'll  have  to  do  a  lot  of  practicing. 
So  I'd  suggest  a  rehearsal  just  as  soon  as  you 
can  get  out  the  parts  and " 

"Well,"  Buntline  smiled,  "that's  just  it.  You 
see,  I  haven't  written  the  play  yet!" 

Will  gasped.  So  did  Texas  Jack.  And  so  did 
the  manager.  More  than  that,  he  refused  to  make 
a  contract  on  a  play  that  was  not  written  for  two 
stars  who  never  had  been  on  the  stage  before. 
Buntline  grew  angry.  He  dragged  a  roll  of  bills 
from  his  pocket. 

"What's  the  rent  on  this  theater  for  a  week?" 
he  snapped. 

"Six  hundred  dollars!" 

"Taken — and  here's  three  hundred  in  advance. 
Give  me  a  receipt.  Thanks.  Come  on,  boys." 

235 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Out  he  swept,  while  Jack  and  my  husband  fol- 
lowed him  somewhat  vaguely  over  to  the  hotel, 
and  to  Buntline's  room.  The  dramatist  pointed 
to  two  chairs. 

"Sit  there!"  he  ordered,  and  they  sat.  Where- 
upon, dragging  out  pens  and  paper,  he  shouted 
for  a  bellboy. 

"Tell  every  clerk  in  this  hotel  that  they're  hired 
as  penmen,"  he  ordered  quickly.  The  bellboy 
stared. 

"As  what,  sir?" 

"Penmen.  I'm  going  to  write  a  play  and  I'm 
going  to  do  it  quick.  Haven't  got  time  to  fool 
around.  These  are  my  two  stars  here,  Buffalo 
Bill  and  Texas  Jack — and  we're  going  to  give  a 
play  in  the  amphitheater  next  Monday  night. 
And  now  I'm  going  to  write  the  play,  and  I'll 
want  some  one  to  copy  the  parts.  So  hurry  them 
up!" 

Perhaps  the  bellboy  stared  the  hardest.  Per- 
haps not,  for  he  had  excellent  competition  in 
Texas  Jack  and  my  husband.  They  had  shot 
Indians  on  the  plains,  they  had  ridden  pony  ex- 
press, they  had  lain  for  days  and  nights  when 
they  did  not  know  whether  the  next  sun  would 
see  them  crumpled  in  death,  and  they  had  man- 

236 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

aged  to  assimilate  it  all.  But  here  was  some- 
thing new,  something  different.  All  the  way 
from  the  wild,  free  West  had  they  come,  to  be 
hustled  and  bustled  about  in  a  big  city,  there  to 
learn  that  they  were  stars  in  something  that  had 
not  even  become  permanent  enough  to  be  placed 
on  paper.  But  Buntline  was  past  paying  any 
attention  to  them.  Already  his  pen  was  scratch- 
ing over  the  paper,  while  sheet  after  sheet  piled 
up  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  Now  and  then 
he  would  leap  to  his  feet  and  rant  up  and  down 
the  room,  shouting  strange  words  and  sentences 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  then  bobbing  into  his  chair 
again  and  grasping  that  pen,  scribble  harder  than 
ever.  One  by  one  the  clerks  began  to  make  their 
appearance,  only  to  have  reams  of  paper  jabbed 
into  their  hands,  and  then  be  shunted  into  the 
next  room  with  orders  to  copy  as  they  never  had 
copied  before.  Somewhat  wildly  my  husband 
looked  at  Texas  Jack,  squirming  about  in  his 
chair. 

"Partner,"  he  began,  "I  reckon  we " 

"Shut  up!"  It  was  an  order  from  the  scrib- 
bling Buntline.  Will  slumped  in  his  chair. 

"I'm  shut,"  he  announced  weakly. 

The  scribbling  went  on.  At  the  end  of  four 
237 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

hours  Buntline  leaped  to  his  feet  and  waved  a 
handful  of  paper  at  the  two  flustered  ones  from 
the  plains. 

"Hurrah!"  he  shouted.  "Hurrah  for  'The 
Scouts  of  the  Plains.' " 

Texas  Jack  looked  around  hurriedly. 

"Who're  they?" 

"The  Scouts  of  the  Plains'?  They're  you. 
You're  'The  Scouts  of  the  Plains.'  That's  the 
name  of  the  play.  Now,  all  you've  got  to  do  is 
to  get  your  parts  letter  perfect." 

"Get  w-h-a-t?" 

"Your  parts — the  lines  that  you're  going  to 
speak.  That  stuff  I've  been  writing." 

"All  that?"  Cody  blinked.  Texas  Jack  sank 
lower  in  his  chair.  "You  mean  we've  got  to  learn 
what  you've  been  scribbling  there,  so  we  can  get 
up  on  the  stage  and  spout  it  off?" 

"Of  course." 

Cody  reached  for  his  hat  and  twisted  it  in  his 
hands. 

"Jack,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  guess  we're  on  the 
wrong  trail.  Maybe — maybe  we're  better  at 
hunting  Injuns!" 

"But,  boys " 

"I  reckon  I  don't  want  to  be  an  actor,  after 
238 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

all."  Texas  Jack  had  risen,  his  long  arms  swing- 
ing at  his  sides.  But  Buntline  was  in  front  of 
them,  pleading  the  fact  that  he  already  had  paid 
out  three  hundred  dollars,  that  they  had  made  the 
trip  from  Fort  McPherson  just  for  this,  that  Will 
had  sold  off  everything  he  possessed  and  that  it 
wouldn't  be  fair,  either  to  him  or  to  themselves, 
to  turn  back  now.  Will  scratched  his  head. 

"Well,"  he  announced  at  last,  "I  never  went 
back  on  a  friend.  But  this  sure  is  pizen!" 

"It  sure  is,"  agreed  Texas  Jack.  "But  give  us 
those  parts,  or  whatever  you  call  'em.  We'll  do 
our  best.  If  I'd  known  all  this,  I'd  never  come 
on,  honest  I  wouldn't.  I  thought  all  there  was 
to  play-acting  was  to  just  get  up  there  and  say 
whatever  popped  into  your  head.  And  we've  got 
to  learn  all  this?" 

He  stared  at  his  part.  Cody  was  doing  the 
same.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"How  long  you  calculate  it'll  take  to  learn  it?" 
Jack  asked  of  Will.  My  husband  sighed  mourn- 
fully. 

"About  six  months." 

"Same  here.    But " 

"Boys,"  Buntline  was  serious  now,  "either 
you've  got  to  have  both  those  parts  committed  to 

239 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

memory  to-morrow  morning  or — well,  we  all  lose. 
And  just  remember  one  thing,  your  reputation's 
at  stake." 

"Yeh,"  Texas  Jack  still  was  staring  at  that 
mass  of  paper  in  his  hand,  "and  I'd  rather 
be  tied  at  the  stake  right  now.  But  if  I  say  I'll 
do  a  thing,  I'll  do  'er.  Lock  us  up  somewhere 
and  we'll  do  our  derndest!" 

I  know  there  were  nights  in  Will  Cody's  life 
that  were  horrible  nightmares  from  a  standpoint 
of  danger  and  privation.  But  I  am  just  as  sure 
that  there  never  was  such  a  night  as  the  one  when 
he  tried  to  learn  the  first  elements  of  being  an 
actor.  No  one  ever  will  know  just  what  did 
happen  in  that  room;  from  the  outside  it  sounded 
like  the  mutterings  of  a  den  of  wild  animals. 
Now  and  then  Will's  voice  would  sound  high  and 
strident,  then  low  and  bellowing,  with  Texas 
Jack's  chiming  in  with  a  rumbling  base.  Every 
few  minutes  bellboys  would  rush  up  the  hall  with 
ice  clinking  in  the  pitchers,  hand  the  refresh- 
ments through  the  door,  then  hurry  away  again, 
with  a  sort  of  dazed,  non-understanding  expres- 
sion on  their  faces.  And  all  the  while,  the  rum- 
bling of  prairie  thunder,  the  verbal  flashes  of 
lightning  and  crashing  of  mountainous  speech 

240 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

torrents  would  continue,  while  guests  in  the  ad- 
joining rooms  made  uncomplimentary  remarks, 
and  Ned  Buntline,  entering  the  "den"  now  and 
then  would  stand  a  few  moments  to  listen,  then 
walk  quietly  away,  somewhat  like  a  man  in  a 
dream. 

But  nights  must  pass  and  that  one  faded  away 
at  last,  to  find  Texas  Jack  and  my  husband  on 
the  dark  stage  of  the  theater,  well-worn  and  wan 
and  waiting  for  the  next  step  in  the  new  form  of 
torture  that  had  swooped  upon  them.  The  re- 
hearsal was  called,  and  Buntline,  who  already 
had  engaged  his  company,  hired  a  director,  looked 
after  the  printing  and  the  distributing  of  dodgers, 
introduced  the  two  stars  to  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany. One  after  another,  and  then 

"And  this  is  Mile.  Morlacchi,"  he  said  as  he 
introduced  Texas  Jack  to  a  dark-eyed,  dark- 
haired  little  woman.  "She  is  to  dance  just  be- 
fore the  show,  for  a  curtain  raiser." 

Texas  Jack  put  out  his  hand  in  a  hesitating, 
wavering  way.  His  usually  heavy,  bass  voice, 
cracked  and  broke.  There  were  more  difficulties 
than  ever  now,  for  Jack  had  fallen  in  love,  at 
sight! 

Far  in  the  rear  of  the  stage,  there  was  a  third 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

person  who  had  watched  the  introduction  and  the 
little  flash  of  mutual  admiration  which  had  passed 
between  the  two.  Years  before  he  had  met  Will 
on  the  Missouri,  and  had  come  to  admire  him, 
with  the  result  that  he  had  requested  and  been 
given  the  management  of  the  advertising  part  of 
the  show,  Major  John  M.  Burke.  That  morn- 
ing Major  Burke  had  met  Morlacchi  also — and 
he,  too,  had  felt  the  flush  of  love. 

And  with  this  combination,  the  first  rehearsal 
began.  It  was  a  wonderful  thing,  from  the  stand- 
point of  a  prairie  stampede  or  a  cattle  round-up. 
But  as  a  theatrical  rehearsal,  it  was  hardly  a 
success.  Jack  and  Will  had  learned  their  parts 
without  regard  to  cues,  entrances  or  anything  else 
that  might  interefere  with  free  speech.  The  mo- 
ment the  director  would  call  on  one  of  them,  he 
would  begin  speaking  the  whole  of  his  part,  line 
after  line,  with  never  a  pause,  never  a  stop  for 
breath,  booming  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  turning 
his  back  on  the  supposed  audience,  putting  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  doing  everything  else 
in  the  calendar  that  no  actor  is  supposed  to  do. 
Patiently  the  director  led  them  around  the  stage, 
taught  them  the  difference  between  the  pro- 
scenium arch  and  the  woodwings,  pushed  them 

242 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

off  the  stage  and  on  the  stage,  forward  and  back- 
ward— only  a  minute  later  to  see  it  all  done  wrong 
again.  At  last,  almost  desperate  at  having  two 
to  handle,  he  turned  Texas  Jack  over  to  Mile. 
Morlacchi,  while  he  looked  after  my  husband. 
And  never  did  a  pupil  work  harder  than  Texas 
Jack  from  that  moment! 

All  day  they  rehearsed,  and  were  still  studying 
their  lines  when  the  house  began  to  fill  that  night. 
The  mere  mention  of  the  fact  that  Buffalo  Bill 
was  to  appear  in  a  play  had  been  enough.  The 
house  was  crowded.  Every  well-known  man  with 
whom  Will  ever  had  hunted  was  there,  while  the 
galleries,  balcony  and  parquet  were  crowded  with 
those  who  had  read  the  stories  of  Buffalo  Bill, 
as  written  by  Ned  Buntline.  And,  of  course, 
Texas  Jack  and  Will  had  to  look  out  through 
the  peephole.  They  turned  to  each  other  in  dis- 
may. 

"I'm  plumb  scared  to  death!"  Jack  confessed. 

"So'm  I "     Then,  desperately.     "Jack- 

what  do  I  say  when  I  first  come  on  the  stage?" 

Jack's  jaw  fell. 

"Gosh,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  do  /  say?" 

They  had  forgotten  their  parts,  forgotten  them 
as  completely  as  though  they  never  had  studied 

243 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

them.  Wildly  they  rushed  to  the  dressing-rooms 
and  began  to  cram  again.  The  orchestra  played 
the  overture.  The  curtain  went  up,  and  then, 
through  the  aisles  and  behind  the  wings  went  a 
stagehand,  hurrying,  excited 

"Where's  Buffalo  Bill?"  he  called,  "where's 
Buffalo  Bill?" 

They  dragged  Will  out  of  the  dressing-room, 
where,  part  in  hand,  he  was  struggling  to  reas- 
semble those  missing  lines.  Out  on  the  stage 
they  shoved  him,  where  Buntline,  playing  the 
part  of  Gale  Durg,  who  seemed  to  be  some  sort 
of  a  vague  temperance  character,  obsessed  with 
a  mania  for  delivering  lectures  on  the  curse  of 
drink,  awaited  him. 

Once  on  the  stage,  Will  just  stood  there, 
gawking.  His  lines  had  vanished  again,  his 
hands  suddenly  had  assumed  the  imagined  pro- 
portions of  hams,  his  feet  had  gained  a  weight 
which  would  surely  have  tripped  him  if  he  had 
taken  another  step.  Gale  Durg,  the  temperance 
advocate,  moved  close,  and  whispered  the  cue 
line.  It  did  no  good.  Will  simply  stood  there, 
moving  his  lips  in  an  aimless  fashion,  a  dry 
gurgling  sound  coming  from  somewhere  back  in 
his  throat.  But  that  was  all.  Gale  Durg,  the 
244 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

destroyer  of  the  Demon  Rum,  decided  on  des- 
perate remedies. 

"Hello,  Cody  P'  he  shouted.  "Where  have  you 
been?" 

Will  blinked.  Now  he  realized  that  he  was  on 
the  stage  and  supposed  to  be  saying  something. 
Wildly  he  glanced  about — and  happened  to  see 
in  one  of  the  boxes  a  Mr.  Milligan,  popular  in 
Chicago,  who  had  recently  been  on  a  hunt  with 
him. 

"I've — I've  been  out  on  a  hunt  with  Milligan," 
he  announced. 

"Ah?"  Gale  Durg,  resorting  to  that  method 
of  "stalling"  that  has  helped  many  an  actor  over 
a  rough  road,  followed  the  lead.  "Tell  us 
about  it." 

Whereupon  Will  "told."  On  he  rambled,  with 
any  wild  story  that  came  to  his  brain,  on  and  on 
and  on,  while  the  prompter  groaned  in  the  wings 
and  while  the  plot  of  the  play  vanished  entirely. 
Finally  some  one  back  stage  thought  of  Texas 
Jack  and  shoved  him  out  into  the  glare  of  light. 
Then,  one  by  one  the  other  players  trooped  on. 
and  then 

The  Indians!  Chicago  Indians  from  Clark 
Street  and  Dearborn  and  Madison,  Indians  who 

245 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

never  had  seen  the  land  beyond  the  borders  of 
Illinois,  Indians  painted  and  devilish  and  ready 
to  be  killed.  It  was  the  lifesaver.  Out  came 
Will's  gun.  Wildly  he  banged  away  about  the 
stage,  then,  leaping  here  and  there,  knocked 
down  Indians  until  there  were  no  more  to  knock. 
He  was  back  home  now,  with  Texas  Jack  at  his 
side,  pulling  the  trigger  of  his  six-shooter  until 
the  stage  was  filled  with  smoke,  and  until  the 
hammers  only  clicked  on  exploded  cartridges. 
They  yelled.  They  shouted.  They  roared  and 
banged  away  at  the  hapless  Illinois  tribe,  at  last 
remembering  vaguely  that  there  was  a  heroine 
scattered  somewhere  around  the  stage,  and  that 
they  must  save  her.  Whereupon  they  leaped  for- 
ward, hurdled  the  bodies  of  the  slain  savages, 
grabbed  the  heroine  around  the  waist  and 
dragged  her  off  stage,  while  the  curtain  came 
down  and  the  house  roared  its  approval  at  the 
bloodthirstiest  Indian  fight  in  which  either  Will 
Cody  or  Texas  Jack  ever  participated. 

The  act  was  over.  The  next  was  devoted  al- 
most to  Gale  Durg,  while  he  died,  making  a 
speech  on  temperance  almost  as  long  as  a  political 
platform  as  he  did  so.  By  this  time  both  Will 
and  Jack  had  gained  an  opportunity  to  make 

246 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

another  wild  scramble  for  those  parts,  and  the 
Indians  had  been  rejuvenated  sufficiently  to  al- 
low them  to  be  killed  again.  Therefore  when  the 
next  act  came,  there  was  at  least  a  semblance  of 
the  original  lines  of  the  play,  to  say  nothing  of 
another  Indian  massacre  and  the  consequent  res- 
cue of  the  heroine,  who  had  again  happened  along 
at  just  the  wrong — or  right — moment. 

Finally,  after  two  hours  of  torture  for  actors, 
Indians,  and  those  two  stars,  the  curtain  came 
down  for  the  last  time.  But  the  audience  refused 
to  leave.  Louder  and  louder  it  applauded,  until 
at  last,  white  and  excited,  Will  and  Jack  had  to 
obey  a  curtain  call.  Their  first  appearance  had 
been  a  wonderful  success,  perhaps  all  the  more 
wonderful  because  of  the  fact  that  the  play  had 
been  almost  forgotten  and  those  two  plainsmen 
had  gotten  out  there  on  the  stage  and  given  an 
exhibition  of  stage-fright  that  no  actor  possibly 
could  simulate.  The  audience  had  come  to  see 
Buffalo  Bill  and  Texas  Jack — and  they  had  been 
entertained  by  the  sight  of  two  men  who  feared 
nothing,  but  who,  at  that  moment,  would  have 
been  afraid  of  their  own  shadow. 

As  for  the  newspapers,  their  criticisms  were 
enough  to  make  any  play.  If  there  is  too  much 

247 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

praise,  or  if  there  is  not  enough,  it  may  be  damn- 
ing. But  when  a  newspaper  blooms  forth  in 
good-natured  humor,  it  provokes  curiosity !  And 
certainly — but  here  is  an  example : 

There  is  a  well-founded  rumor  that  Ned  Buntline,  who 
played  the  part  of  Gale  Durg  in  last  night's  performance, 
wrote  the  play  in  which  Buffalo  Bill  and  Texas  Jack  ap- 
peared, taking  only  four  hours  to  complete  the  task.  The 
question  naturally  arises:  what  was  he  doing  all  that 
time?  As  Gale  Durg,  he  made  some  excellent  speeches 
on  temperance  and  was  killed  in  the  second  act,  it  being 
very  much  regretted  that  he  did  not  arrange  his  demise 
so  that  it  could  have  occurred  sooner.  Buffalo  Bill  and 
Texas  Jack  are  wonderful  Indian  killers.  As  an  artistic 
success,  'The  Scouts  of  the  Plains'  can  hardly  be  called 
a  season's  event,  but  for  downright  fun,  Injun  killing,  red 
fire  and  rough  and  tumble,  it  is  a  wonder." 

All  of  which  was  thoroughly  agreed  with  by 
Will  and  Texas  Jack.  In  fact,  so  much  did  Will 
coincide  in  the  opinion  that  a  \yeek  later,  in  St. 
Louis 

With  Arta  on  my  lap,  I  sat  in  the  audience, 
watching  the  performance,  and  waiting  for  Will 
to  appear.  At  last,  three  or  four  Indians  pranced 
across  the  stage,  turned,  waved  their  tomahawks, 
yelled  something  and  then  fell  dead,  accompanied 
by  the  rattle-te-bang  of  a  six-shooter.  Out 
rushed  Will,  assured  himself  that  all  three  of  the 

248 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Indians  were  thoroughly  dead,  turned  just  in  time 
to  kill  a  couple  more  who  had  roamed  on  to  the 
stage  by  accident,  and  then  faced  the  audience. 

I  was  sitting  in  about  the  third  row,  and  Will 
saw  me.  He  came  forward,  leaned  over  the  gas 
footlights  and  waved  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Mamma!"  he  shouted,  "I'm  a  bad  actor!" 

The  house  roared.  Will  threw  me  a  kiss  and 
then  leaned  forward  again,  while  the  house 
stilled. 

"Honest,  Mamma,"  he  shouted,  "does  this  look 
as  awful  out  there  as  it  feels  up  here?" 

And  again  the  house  chuckled  and  applauded. 
Some  one  called  out  the  fact  that  I  was  Mrs. 
Buffalo  Bill.  High  up  in  the  gallery  came  a 
strident  voice : 

"Get  up  there  on  the  stage!  Let's  take  a  look 
at  you." 

"Yeh!"  It  was  Will's  voice,  chiming  in. 
"Come  on  up,  Mamma." 

"Oh,  Will !"  I  was  blushing  to  the  roots  of  my 
hair.  "Stop!" 

"Stop  nothing.  You  can't  be  any  worse  scared 
than  I  am.  Come  on  up." 

Some  one  placed  a  chair  in  the  orchestra  pit. 
Hands  reached  out.  I  felt  myself  raised  from 

249 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

my  seat  and  boosted  on  to  the  stage,  Arta  after 
me.  There  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights,  my 
husband,  rumbling  with  laughter  beside  me,  I  felt 
that  dryness,  that  horrible  speechlessness  that  I 
knew  Will  had  experienced  that  first  night  in 
Chicago — and  for  once  it  wasn't  funny.  Will 
pinched  me  on  the  arm. 

"Now  you  can  understand  how  hard  your  poor 
old  husband  has  to  work  to  make  a  living !"  he 
shouted  and  the  audience  applauded  again. 

I  don't  remember  how  long  I  had  to  stand 
there;  it's  all  hazy  and  mist-like.  After  a  long 
while,  I  remember  sitting  down  front  once  again, 
while  Will  banged  away  at  the  Indians  up  on  the 
stage.  And  after  that,  when  I  went  to  see  my 
husband  in  his  new  role  as  an  actor,  I  chose  a  seat 
in  the  farthest  and  darkest  part  of  the  house. 
But  it  did  little  good.  For  invariably  Will  would 
seek  me  out,  and  invariably  he  would  call: 

"Hello,  Mamma.    Oh,  but  I'm  a  bad  actor  1" 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  money  was  flowing  in.  Bad  as  the  "stars" 
knew  their  play  to  be,  it  was  what  the  public 
wanted,  and  that  was  all  that  counted.  Week 
after  week  they  played  to  houses  that  were 
packed  to  the  roofs,  while  often  the  receipts 
would  run  close  to  $20,000  for  the  seven  days. 
It  was  more  money  than  any  of  us  ever  had 
dreamed  of  before.  Unheard  extravagances  be- 
came ours.  And  Will,  dear,  generous  soul  that 
he  was,  believed  that  an  inexhaustible  supply  of 
wealth  had  become  his  forever.  One  night — I 
believe  it  was  in  St.  Louis — we  entered  a  hotel, 
only  to  find  that  the  rooms  we  occupied  were  on 
a  noisy  side  of  the  house.  Will  complained.  The 
manager  bowed  suavely. 

"But  you  are  liable  to  encounter  noise  any- 
where in  a  hotel,"  came  his  counter  argument. 
"For  instance,  I  might  move  you  to  another  part 
of  the  hotel  and  right  in  the  next  room  would 
be  some  one  who  talked  loudly  or  otherwise  dis- 
turbed you.  The  only  way  you  could  have  abso- 

251 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

lute  peace  would  be  to  rent  the  whole  floor  and, 
of  course,  you  don't  want  to  do  that " 

"Don't  I?"  Will  reached  for  the  roll  of  bills 
in  his  pocket.  "How  much  is  it?" 

The  manager  figured.     Then  he  smiled. 

"Two  hundred  dollars  would  be  a  pretty  stiff 
price  to  pay  for  peace  and  quiet." 

"Paid!"  Will  had  peeled  the  bills  from  his 
roll.  "Now,  let's  see  how  quick  you  can  make 
things  comfortable  for  us.  I've  got  a  wife  and 
babies  and  we're  all  tired!" 

Never  did  any  one  ever  have  such  service.  But 
it  cost  money.  In  fact,  so  much  money  that  when 
the  season  was  over,  Will  looked  somewhat  rue- 
fully at  his  bank  account.  Instead  of  the  hundred 
thousand  dollars  or  so  he  had  dreamed  of  pos- 
sessing, the  balance  showed  something  less  than 
$6,000.  And  Texas  Jack's  bankbook  had  suf- 
fered far  more — for  Texas  Jack  was  in  love. 

Long  ago  poor  Major  Burke  had  given  up  all 
hope  of  ever  winning  the  little  dancer,  and  great 
big  man  that  he  was,  he  had  confessed  it.  To 
me  he  had  told  his  story,  and  to  me  he  had  un- 
folded his  purpose  in  life. 

"Mrs.  Cody,"  he  had  said  one  night  as  we  sat 
back  stage  watching  the  'performance'  from  the 

252 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

wings,  "I  have  met  a  god  and  a  goddess  in  my 
life.  The  god  was  Bill  Cody.  I  came  on  him 
just  at  sunset  one  night,  out  on  the  Missouri, 
and  the  reflection  of  the  light  from  the  river  was 
shining  up  straight  into  his  face  and  lighting  it 
up  like  some  kind  of  an  aura.  He  was  on  horse- 
back, and  I  thought  then  that  he  was  the  hand- 
somest, straightest,  finest  man  that  I  ever  had 
seen  in  my  life.  I  still  think  so." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  while  some  rampage 
of  Indian  killing  happened  out  on  the  stage. 
Then  he  leaned  closer. 

"The  goddess  was  Mile.  Morlacchi.  But  I 
can't  have  her,  Mrs.  Cody.  I  wouldn't  be  the 
man  that  I  want  to  be  if  I  tried.  Jack's  a  better 
man — he's  fought  the  West,  and  he's  had  far 
more  hardships  than  I've  ever  seen  and — and — he 
deserves  his  reward.  I'll  never  love  any  other 
woman — but  there's  one  thing  I  can  do,  I  can 
turn  all  my  affection  from  the  goddess  to  the  god, 
and  so  help  me,  I'll  never  fail  from  worshipping 
him!" 

Many  a  year  followed  that,  many  a  year  of 
wandering,  while  Will  went  from  country  to 
country,  from  nation  to  nation,  from  state  to 
state.  There  were  fat  times  and  there  were  lean, 

253 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

there  were  times  when  the  storms  gathered,  and 
there  were  times  when  the  sun  shone;  but 
always  in  cloud  or  in  sunshine,  there  was  ever  a 
shadow  just  behind  him,  following  him  with  a 
wistful  love  that  few  men  can  ever  display,  Major 
John  M.  Burke.  And  when  the  time  came  that 
Will  and  I  said  good-by  forever,  another  man 
loosed  his  hold  on  the  world.  Throughout  every 
newspaper  office  in  the  country,  where  John 
Burke  had  sat  by  the  hour,  never  mentioning  a 
word  about  himself,  but  telling  always  of  the 
prowess  of  his  "god,"  there  flashed  the  news  that 
Major  John  M.  Burke,  the  former  representative 
of  William  Frederick  Cody,  had  become  danger- 
ously ill.  And  six  weeks  later  the  faithful  old 
hands  were  folded,  the  lips  that  had  spoken 
hardly  anything  but  the  praises  of  Buffalo  Bill 
for  a  half  a  century,  were  still.  Major  Burke  had 
died  when  Cody  died,  only  his  body  lingered  on 
for  those  six  weeks,  at  last  to  loose  its  hold  on 
the  loving,  faithful  old  spirit  it  bound,  and  allow 
it  to  follow  its  master  over  the  Great  Divide. 

But  that  is  a  matter  of  other  years.  We  still 
were  in  the  days  of  youth  and  of  life.  The  West 
was  calling  to  all  of  us,  and  back  we  bundled  at 
the  end  of  the  season,  once  more  to  take  up  our 


MEiMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

home  at  the  fort,  while  Jack  and  Will  scouted 
through  the  summer  months,  and  made  their 
plans  for  the  coming  season. 

The  stage  had  caught  them  now.  This  time 
they  would  not  be  such  profligates.  This  time 
they  would  save — and  more,  they  would  be  pro- 
ducers themselves.  Hence  the  reason  that  they 
must  work  this  summer  and  not  make  inroads 
upon  that  bank  balance. 

Already  the  play  was  being  written,  and  a  new 
star  was  to  be  added,  Wild  Bill  Hickok.  The 
summer  passed  and  back  we  went  to  the  East, 
while  Texas  Jack  and  Will  began  their  play, 
and  awaited  Wild  Bill.  At  last  he  came,  to  ar- 
rive one  night  while  Will  was  on  the  stage,  re- 
splendent in  the  circle  of  the  "limelight."  Wild 
Bill,  stumbling  about  in  the  darkness  of  the 
stage,  looked  out  and  gasped  as  he  saw  Cody. 

"For  the  sake  of  Jehosophat!"  he  exclaimed, 
"what's  that  Bill  Cody's  got  on  him  out  there?" 

"The  clothes,  you  mean?"  I  asked.  I  was  sit- 
ting in  one  of  the  entrances,  Kit  Carson  on  my 
lap.  Long  ago  Kit  had  become  a  regular  theater- 
goer ;  it  was  habit  to  take  him  to  watch  his  father 
now.  Wild  Bill  shook  his  head  and  waved  his 
arms. 

255 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"No,"  he  was  growing  more  excited  every  min- 
ute, "that  white  stuff  that's  floating  all  around 
him." 

I  laughed. 

"Why,  Mr.  Hickok,"  I  explained,  "that's 
limelight." 

Wild  Bill  turned  and  grasped  a  stage-hand 
by  the  arm.  Then  he  dragged  a  gold-piece  from 
his  pocket. 

"Boy,"  he  ordered,  "run  just  as  fast  as  your 
legs  will  carry  you  and  get  me  five  dollars'  worth 
of  that  stuff.  I  want  it  smeared  all  over  me!" 

In  fact,  Bill  needed  a  good  many  things 
smeared  over  him,  for,  while  he  might  have  been 
wonderful  with  a  revolver,  he  was  hardly  meant 
for  an  actor.  Like  Jack  and  Will  he  had  stage- 
fright  on  his  first  performance,  and,  more  than 
that,  he  never  got  over  it. 

"Ain't  this  foolish?"  he  exclaimed  one  night, 
after  he  had  stuttered  and  stammered  through 
his  lines.  "Ain't  it  now?  What's  the  use  of  get- 
ting out  there  and  making  a  show  of  yourself? 
I  ain't  going  to  do  it!" 

And  there  the  theatrical  career  of  William 
Hickok  ended.  He  went  away,  back  to  his  West, 
to  his  card  games — and  to  his  death.  But  the 

256 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

theatrical  enterprises  of  Cody  and  Omohundro — 
that  was  Texas  Jack's  real  name — went  flourish- 
ing on. 

Weird  things,  were  those  plays.  After  the  first 
season  Will  had  purchased  a  house  in  Rochester, 
New  York,  where  the  children  and  myself  might 
live  until  he  should  come  home  from  the  road. 
Now  and  then  we  would  join  him  for  a  while,  then 
return  to  the  big,  quiet  house  and  its  restfulness, 
where  I  might  dream  of  the  days  of  the  West — 
and  see  in  a  vision  the  time  when  we  would  return 
there.  For  Will  never  looked  upon  his  stage  ex- 
perience as  anything  but  transitory. 

Nevertheless,  the  public  demanded  him,  and  the 
public  got  him,  in  such  wondrous  pieces  of  dra- 
matic art  as  "Life  on  the  Border,"  "Buffalo  Bill 
at  Bay,"  "From  Noose  to  Neck,"  "Buffalo  Bill's 
Pledge,"  and  other  marvels  of  stagecraft.  One 
of  them  I  remember  particularly,  and  the  faded 
old  manuscript  lies  before  me  as  I  write,  "The 
Red  Right  Hand." 

Just  what  the  Red  Right  Hand  had  to  do  with 
the  play  never  was  fully  determined.  However, 
a  small  detail  like  that  made  very  little  difference 
in  those  days.  The  thing  that  counted  was  ac- 
tion, and  when  the  lines  became  dull,  it  was  al- 

257 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ways  possible  for  some  one  to  pull  out  a  revolver 
and  start  shooting.  Even  the  manuscript  pro- 
vided for  that.  Just  for  instance,  a  few  lines 
from  its  quietest  act : 

Hurry  music.  Shot  is  heard.  (I'm  quoting  now  from 
the  manuscript.)  Pearl  enters,  pursued  by  several  Indians. 
She  runs  up  on  rock.  Enter  Indians,  yelling.  She  fires 
one  shot  and  an  Indian  falls.  The  balance  of  them  yell 
and  attempt  to  ascend  the  rock.  She  clubs  them  back  with 
butt  of  rifle. 

Pearl  (on  rock).  .  .  .  Back!  Back!  You  red  fiends! 

Enter  Bill,  hurriedly  fires  a  few  shots,  and  three  or  four 
Indians  fall. 

Perhaps  you'll  notice  how  careless  they  were 
with  Indians  in  those  days.  It  didn't  make  much 
difference  how  many  shots  were  fired;  the  num- 
ber of  Indians  that  toppled  over  was  always  more 
than  the  number  of  bullets,  which  chased  them  to 
their  death.  But  to  that  manuscript: 

.  .  .  Red  Hand  enters  hastily,  follows  off  the  retiring 
Indians  and  shoots  once  or  twice  and  kills  several  Indians. 
Returns,  sees  Bill  and  raises  rifle  as  if  to  shoot. 

Bill— Hold  on,  Pard! 

Red  Hand—  (Surprised).    What?     Bill  Cody? 

Bill— Red  Hand?    You  here? 

Red  Hand — Yes,  Bill,  and  I'm  glad  to  meet  you.  I  heard 
you  were  to  join  the  campaign,  but  had  no  idea  that  you 
had  yet  arrived.  But  it  is  always  like  you,  Bill — sure 
to  be  near  when  danger  threatens! 

258 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Can't  you  hear  them,  these  two  great-lunged 
men  of  the  plains,  roaring  this  at  each  other? 
Can't  you  imagine  the  gestures,  the  strutting,  the 
pursing  of  lips  as  these  scouts  of  the  silent  places, 
accustomed  to  the  long,  stealthy  searches,  the 
hours  of  waiting,  the  days  of  trailing,  bellowed 
this  travesty,  while  out  over  the  footlights,  a  ten- 
derfoot audience  waited,  gaping  on  every  word, 
and  assured  itself  that  here  was  the  true  spirit  of 
the  West,  the  real  manner  in  which  the  paleface 
and  the  Indian  fought  the  great  fight?  But  one 
cannot  transport  the  prairie  to  the  boarded  stage, 
and  still  keep  within  the  mileage  limits.  And, 
besides,  those  audiences  wanted  their  kind  of 
thrills.  They  got  them.  Back  to  that  manuscript: 

Bill—  (Takes  his  hand).  I  always  try  to  be,  Red  Hand, 
you  bet!  (Looks  up  and  sees  Pearl,  who  has  been  listen- 
ing.) But  say,  look  here,  who  is  yon  lovely  creature  that 
we  have  just  rescued  from  those  red  fiends? 

Red  Hand—By  heavens  !  Bill,  but  she  is  beautiful.  Yet 
I  know  not  who  she  is. 

Many  a  time  I  heard  Texas  Jack  call  a  dance. 
Many  a  time  I  saw  him  swing  off  his  horse,  tired 
and  dusty  from  miles  in  the  saddle,  worn  from 
days  and  nights  without  sleep,  when  perhaps  the 
lives  of  hundreds  depended  on  his  nerve,  his  skill 
with  the  rifle,  his  knowledge  of  the  prairie.  But 

259 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

I  don't  believe  I  ever  heard  him  say,  at  any  of 
those  times:  'Yet  I  know  not  who  she  is.'  Mar- 
vels indeed  were  those  old-time  "drameys,"  when 
the  East,  the  West  and  the  imagination  of  the 
Bowery  dramatist,  all  met  in  the  same  sentence. 
If  I  may  return  to  the  manuscript 

Bill — (To  Pearl).  Fear  not,  fair  girl.  You  are  now 
safe  with  one  who  is  ever  ready  to  aid  a  friend,  or  risk 
his  life  in  defense  of  a  woman. 

Pearl — (Comes  down).  I  knew  not  that  the  paleface 
hunters  dare  come  into  this  unknown  land  of  the  Indian. 

Red  Hand — Will  you  not  let  me  see  you  to  your  cabin? 

Hermit  (Suddenly  appears  on  rock,  shoots,  and  Red 
Hand  falls.  Rushes  down  with  rifle  in  hand,  sees  Red 
Hand  trying  to  gain  his  feet.  Speaks) :  Ha !  My  rifle 
failed  me,  but  this  will  not!  (Draws  large  knife.  Rushes 
toward  Red  Hand,  and  is  just  in  the  act  of  stabbing  him 
when  Bill  rushes  on  him  and,  with  knife  in  hand,  con- 
fronts Hermit.  Chord.  Picture.) 

Bill — Hello,  Santa  Claus  ! 

Hermit—  (Staggering  back).  Buffalo  Bill!  Ha!  Ha! 
Ha!  Well  met!  I  have  sworn  to  kill  you,  and  all  your 
accursed  race.  Your  hour  has  come!  For  this  is  your 
last! 

Bill—  Calmly).       You  don't  say  so? 

Hermit — By  heaven  I  will  keep  my  vow ! 

Music.  Starts  for  Bill,  who  steps  over  Red  Hand  and 
faces  him.  They  stare  at  each  other  and  Hermit  rushes 
on  Bill.  They  cross  knives.  Pearl  leaps  into  scene  and 
grasps  the  wrist  of  Hermit. 

Pearl — Father !     Father !     This  must  not  be ! 
(Chord  in  'G'.     Picture) 

260 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

That  is  sufficient.  Perhaps  now  you  can  un- 
derstand the  plight  of  those  two  men  of  the  West 
when  first  they  gazed  upon  a  "Western"  play 
there  in  the  hotel  in  Chicago,  five  days  before 
their  first  performance.  Perhaps,  too,  you  can 
understand  why,  in  the  agonized  days  of  learning 
the  new  parts  as  the  different  plays  came  along, 
Will  and  Jack  would  stare  at  each  other  weakly, 
then  allow  the  manuscripts  to  slip  aimlessly  to 
the  floor,  as  one  or  the  other  exclaimed: 

"Gosh!    We  never  talked  like  this!" 

But  there  was  the  money,  and  there  was  that 
house  in  Rochester,  and  the  big  school  that  meant 
so  much  to  Will — because  it  meant  so  much  also 
to  the  three  children  that  he  loved.  And  just 
how  much  he  loved  them !  How  much  indeed • 

It  was  late  one  night,  in  April,  1876.  I  had 
been  sitting  for  hours,  months  it  seemed,  beside 
the  crib  of  our  little  boy,  tossing  there  in  the 
parched  agony  of  scarlet  fever.  Across  the  room 
lay  Arta,  crying  and  pettish  from  the  same  ill- 
ness, and  tucked  away  was  Orra,  also  a  victim. 
The  world  had  grown  black  and  the  darkness  was 
descending  all  about  me.  Again  and  again  I 
leaned  forward,  forcing  back  the  sobs  that  I  could 
scarcely  restrain,  trying  to  soothe  the  fevered 

261 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

little  being,  whispering  over  and  over  again: 

"I've  telegraphed,  Honey.  Daddy  will  be 
here  to-morrow  morning.  He'll  be  here  at  nine 
o'clock,  Honey.  Go  to  sleep  now;  Daddy's  com- 
ing, Daddy'll  be  here  in  the  morning." 

And  in  answer  the  little  lips  would  murmur: 

"Ten  o'clock— ten  o'clock." 

"Nine  o'clock,  Honey.  He'll  be  here  at  nine 
o'clock." 

And  again  the  answer  would  come: 

"Ten  o'clock.    Ten  o'clock!" 

I  knew  what  was  happening  far  away,  in  Bos- 
ton, where  Buffalo  Bill  was  showing  that  week, 
knew  as  well  as  though  I  were  there,  knew  that 
out  on  the  stage  a  man,  his  faced  lined  and  old, 
was  telling  an  audience  that  he  could  not  go  on 
with  this  mockery  any  longer,  that  tragedy  had 
come  to  him  and  that  he  must  obey  its  call.  I 
knew  from  the  time  that  I  had  sent  the  telegram 
calling  him  home  that  he  would  be  able  to  catch 
the  train  which  reached  Rochester  shortly  before 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  that  by  the  time 
the  clock  struck,  he  would  be  in  the  house  and 
beside  his  boy — the  boy  he  had  dreamed  for, 
hoped  for,  lived  and  loved  for.  And  if  Kit  could 
only  live  until  then — it  was  my  prayer!  I  knew 

262 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

that  death  was  coining;  I  could  tell  it  from  the 
fear  that  clutched  at  my  heart,  the  fear  that  tore 
its  ragged  claws  into  my  very  vitals.  A  mother 
knows — a  mother  can  see  in  the  eyes  of  the  child 
she  loves  when  the  light  is  dimming;  her  own 
heart  echoes  the  failing  beats  of  the  heart  that  is 
hers  also.  And  if  Kit  could  only  live  until  morn- 
ing— until  nine  o'clock !  But  faintly  the  baby  lips 
answered : 

"Ten  o'clock— ten  o'clock!" 

The  night  dragged  along  on  its  weary  path, 
while  I  sat  there,  counting  the  ticks  of  the  old 
clock,  sounding  heavy  and  sonorous  in  the  quiet 
room.  Dawn  came  and  the  baby  slept.  The  sun 
rose  and  he  awakened,  while  I  leaned  over  him, 
whispering: 

"It'll  not  be  long  now,  Honey.  Daddy's  on 
the  way.  He'll  be  here  at  nine  o'clock." 

And  once  again  the  white  lips  that  once  had 
been  so  red  and  round  and  full,  the  drawn  lips 
that  once  had  laughed  so  prettily,  parted  with: 

"Ten  o'clock.    Ten  o'clock." 

Eight  o'clock.  Eighty-thirty.  I  waited  for 
the  whistle  of  the  train,  my  heart  pounding  until 
it  seemed  that  its  every  throb  was  a  triphammer 
beating  on  my  brain.  The  old,  heavily  ticking 

263 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

clock  struck  nine.    The  whistle  had  not  sounded. 

Again  the  minutes  dragged  on.  Slower  and 
slower  and  slower — a  whistle,  far  away — a  long, 
anxious  wait  and  then  the  sound  of  hurried  steps, 
the  rushing  form  of  a  man  who  came  into  the 
room,  his  face  white  and  drawn,  his  arms  ex- 
tended. As  he  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  baby  we 
loved,  the  old  clock  on  the  wall  struck  ten !  And 
almost,  with  the  last  stroke,  there  faded  the  life 
from  the  pretty,  baby  eyes,  the  little  fingers 
twitched  ever  so  slightly;  there  was  a  sigh,  brief, 
soft — and  the  choking  sob  of  a  great,  strong  man. 
Kit,  our  Kit,  the  baby  for  whom  Will  and  I  had 
dreamed — was  dead. 

We  buried  him  where  he  wanted  to  lie,  up  in 
the  big  cemetery  at  the  end  of  the  street,  where 
the  trees  flung  wide  their  shade  and  where  he  had 
seen  the  flowers  and  the  smooth  mounds  of  green 
and  where — with  that  childlike  prognostication 
that  all  too  often  comes  true,  he  had  said  he 
would  like  to  be  if  he  died.  We  buried  him  and 
said  good-by  to  him,  and  then  turned  back  to  the 
big  home,  a  tall,  silent  man,  his  lips  pressed  tight, 
his  eyes  narrowed  and  determined,  and  his  great, 
strong  arm  about  the  wife  who  was  not  as  strong 

264 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

as  he,  who  grieved  with  all  her  heart,  yet  was 
blessed  with  the  surcease  of  tears. 

Silently  he  walked  about  the  house  for  a  day 
or  so,  stopping  to  look  at  the  bed  where  Kit  had 
lain  and  died,  then  trying  to  smile  for  the  sake 
of  the  baby  and  of  the  girl  who  lay  fevered  and 
ill.  Telegrams  came  to  him.  He  crushed  them 
unread.  Then 

"Mamma — ,"  his  voice  had  lost  the  old 
bouyant  ring — "I  can't  go  back  to  that — that 
mockery.  It's  always  been  a  joke  to  me — those 
plays.  And  I  can't  joke  now.  I  can't  go  on  the 
stage  and  act — remembering — remembering — up 
there."  He  pointed  hurriedly  toward  the  ceme- 
tery. I  put  my  arms  about  him. 

"Will,"  I  said,  "it's  spring.  They're  starting 
the  expeditions  now,  back — out  home.  It's  your 
land  out  there.  I'll  stay  here  and  wait,  and  hope. 
We've  got  enough  money;  we  can  live.  I  want 
you  to  go  back  out  West  again  and  ride  and  fight 
and — well,  I  know  you  won't  forget." 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  won't  forget." 

A  day  later,  he  went  to  rejoin  the  show  again, 
but  only  to  close  its  season  and  hurry  home  again. 
Within  a  week  or  so,  we  said  good-by  at  the  sta- 
tion once  more.  Will  was  going  back  to  the 

265 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

West,  and  I  hoped  that  the  West  would  give  him 
again  that  old  light  in  his  eyes,  that  the  fresh, 
clear  air,  the  brilliant  ruddiness  of  the  sunshine 
and  the  glare  of  the  plains  would  take  that  pallor 
from  his  cheeks,  the  excitement  of  the  chase  once 
again  return  the  great,  happy  booming  that  once 
had  sounded  in  his  voice.  My  trust  in  the  West 
was  fulfilled. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  received  a  letter. 
Then  I  learned  that  Will  was  soon  to  take  to  the 
trail  again,  this  time  as  the  chief  of  scouts  for 
General  Sheridan.  A  letter  which  arrived  shortly 
afterward  told  me,  however,  that  he  soon  was  to 
rejoin  his  old  command,  the  Fifth  Cavalry,  under 
General  Carr,  and  that  a  campaign  was  to  start 
against  the  hostile  Sioux.  Again,  a  third  letter, 
told  of  a  change  in  the  command,  this  time  the 
regiment  being  under  General  Wesley  Merritt. 
Then  silence. 

A  month  passed  while  I  nursed  Arta  and  Orra 
back  to  health  and  strength.  A  second  month 
and  then  the  news  flashed  upon  the  world  that 
Custer  had  been  massacred,  and  that  every  Sioux 
in  the  Big  Horn  country  had  gone  upon  the  war- 
path. Long  before,  Will  had  told  me  not  to 
worry,  and  never  to  lose  faith  in  his  powers  to 

266 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

defend  himself.  But  now  I  was  fighting  against 
a  new  enemy — was  Will  again  the  old  Will?  Or 
had  he  allowed  grief  to  weigh  upon  him  until  it 
had  dulled  his  quickness  of  perception,  his  keen- 
ness of  eye,  his  rapidity  of  touch  upon  the 
trigger? 

Story  after  story  came  from  the  West  of  the 
horrors  of  that  massacre,  how  the  Indians  had 
surged  upon  Custer  and  his  command,  surround- 
ing him,  annihilating  the  soldiery,  fighting  to  the 
last  minute,  the  last  gasp  of  breath.  News  did 
not  travel  swiftly  in  those  times;  there  was  no 
casualty  list  forthcoming  in  a  few  days  or  weeks, 
such  as  one  might  expect  now  should  a 
catastrophe  of  the  same  nature  happen  in  this 
country.  All  that  I  knew  was  that  Will  was  out 
in  the  West,  that  he  was  scouting  for  the  gallant 
Fifth  Cavalry,  and  that  some  time,  some  place, 
the  Indians  and  that  regiment  would  meet  for 
revenge.  And  when  they  met  would  their  fate  be 
that  of  Custer? 

The  news  came  of  another  battle,  and  I  gasped 
as  I  read  the  command.  It  was  the  Fifth  Cavalry, 
hurrying  to  cut  off  the  Dog  Soldiers,  as  a  num- 
ber of  renegade  Sioux  and  Cheyenne  were  called. 
They  had  stopped  the  advance  of  eight  hundred 

267 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Indians  just  as  they  were  seeking  to  turn  into  the 
heart  of  the  Big  Horn  country  and  there  join 
the  hostile  bands  of  Sitting  Bull.  I  knew  that 
Will  had  been  in  that  battle,  but  that  was  all. 
Any  knowledge  of  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead 
— that  was  another  matter.  I  found  myself  tor- 
mented with  a  new  fear.  It  was  I  who  had  sent 
him  into  the  West,  it  was  I  who  had  suggested 
that  out  there  he  might  heal  over  the  wounds 
which  the  death  of  Kit  Carson  had  caused.  It 
was  I  who 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door,  and  I  answered 
it,  my  heart  pounding  strangely.  But  it  was  only 
the  expressman,  with  a  small,  square  box.  I 
looked  at  the  label — all  that  it  told  me  was  that 
one  of  its  shipping  points  had  been  Fort  Mc- 
Pherson  and  that  the  consignor  was  William 
Frederick  Cody.  But  that  was  enough.  It  told 
me  also  that  Will  was  still  alive,  and  apparently 
safe.  For  the  shipping  date  was  later  than  that 
of  the  Battle  of  the  Warbonnet — such  had  been 
named  the  clash  between  the  Dog  Soldiers  and 
the  Fifth  Cavalry — and  that  meant  Will's  safety, 
from  that  battle  at  least. 

Hurriedly  I  sought  the  hatchet  and  pried  open 
the  lid  of  the  box.  A  terrific  odor  caught  my 

268 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

nostrils.  I  reeled  slightly — then  reached  for  the 
contents.  Then  I  fainted.  For  I  had  brought 
from  that  box  the  raw,  red  scalp  of  an  Indian  1 

Some  way  I  managed  to  put  the  thing  away 
from  me  when  I  recovered  consciousness.  Some 
way  I  managed  to  blind  myself  to  the  sight  of  it. 
But  I  couldn't  wipe  out  the  memory.  And  weeks 
later,  when  Will  Cody  rushed  in  the  door,  his 
voice  thundering  with  at  least  a  semblance  of  the 
olden  days,  I  forgot  myself  long  enough  to  kiss 
him  and  hug  him  again  and  again — then  remem- 
bered that  I  was  terribly  angry. 

"Will  Cody!"  I  said.  "What  on  earth  did  you 
send  me  that  old  scalp  for !  Aren't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself?  It  nearly  scared  me  to  death!" 

"No!"  In  his  eyes  was  blank  astonishment. 
"Why— why  I  though  you'd  like  that." 

"Like  it?    Why,  Will,  I  fainted!" 

"Honest?"  The  knowledge  that  I  was  in  the 
East  now,  gradually  was  beginning  to  break  in 
on  him.  "Gosh,  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  was 
so  excited  that  I  just  said  to  myself  that  I'd 
send  his  scalp  to  Mamma  and  let  her  know  just 
how  fine  a  time  I  was  having  out  there,  because  it 
was  about  the  best  fight  I  ever  had  and  I  knew 

that  when  you  got  my  letter,  you'd " 

269 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"But  I  didn't  get  any  letter." 

"Not  about  Yellowhand?" 

"Who's  Yellowhand?" 

"Gosh!"  Will  leaned  against  the  door,  and 
laughed.  "What's  the  use  of  getting  a  reputa- 
tion? Remember  how  I  used  to  make  fun  of  that 
play-acting?  Well,  by  golly,  it  turned  out.  I've 
had  a  duel!" 

"With  an  Indian?" 

"With  an  Injun — and  I  sent  you  his  scalp,  just 
for  a  keepsake,  as  it  were.  You  see,  General 
Merritt  got  an  idea  that  maybe  he  might  be  able 
to  cut  off  those  Dog  Soldiers.  We  marched  all 
day  and  most  of  the  night,  and  we  prepared  an 
ambush  along  Warbonnet  Creek,  just  before  the 
Dogs  got  there.  Well,  everything  was  fine.  The 
Injuns  showed  up  on  the  hill  and  we  were  just 
waiting  to  start  popping  away  at  'em,  when  a 
wagon  train  showed  up  in  the  distance  and  some 
of  the  Injuns  started  after  it.  Well,  then  there 
wasn't  much  more  chance  to  keep  ourselves  hid 
if  we  were  going  to  save  those  wagons,  so  I  took 
twelve  or  fifteen  scouts  out  and  drove  off  the 
Injuns  that  had  started  after  the  train.  And 
about  this  time,  out  rode  an  old  Codger  all  deco- 
rated up  and  everything  and  began  pounding  his 

270 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

chest  and  riding  around  and  cutting  up  fit  to  kill. 
I  turned  to  Little  Bat,  our  interpreter,  and  asked 
him  what  the.  Old  Fogy  was  trying  to  do. 
Mamma,  you  ought  to  have  seen  him.  He  was 
riding  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  Injuns  that 
were  lined  up  on  the  hill,  pounding  himself  on  the 
chest  and  ranting  around  there  like  a  crazy  man. 
Little  Bat  listened  to  him  a  minute  and  then  he 
told  me  that  this  was  Yellowhand  who  thought 
himself  some  heap  big  chief. 

"  'What's  he  want?'  I  says.  'Looks  like  he's 
got  a  pain  or  something.' 

"  'He  says  that  before  this  battle  starts  he 
wants  to  fight  Pahaska  a  duel.' 

"Well,  Mamma" — Will  turned  to  me,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  small  boy  describing  the  catching 
of  his  big  fish — "I  couldn't  take  that,  could  I  ?  I 
couldn't  stand  to  have  this  old  Pelican  riding 
around  out  there,  making  fun  of  me.  So  I  just 
let  out  a  yell  and  jabbed  spurs  into  my  horse. 
Out  we  shot  from  the  lines  and  the  minute  I 
started  after  him,  he  started  after  me." 

"And  you  shot  him!"  I  was  standing  wide-eyed, 
Orra  in  my  arms,  Arta  clinging  excitedly  to  my 
skirts.  Will  waved  his  arms  enthusiastically. 

"That's  just  what  I  didn't  do.  Just  when  I 
271 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

started  to  pull  that  blamed  old  trigger,  down  went 
my  horse's  foot  in  a  gopher  hole.  But  the  shot 
got  his  horse  anyway.  And  when  I  got  through 
rolling  around  on  the  ground,  and  wondering 
why  that  old  Codger  didn't  put  a  bullet  through 
me,  I  looked  up  and  saw  him  just  coming  out  of  a 
cloud  of  dust.  That  bullet  had  hit  something 
anyway,  and  he  didn't  have  any  more  horse  than 
a  rabbit.  By  gosh,  Mamma,  that  was  some 
fight!" 

"And  then  what,  Daddy?"  Arta  had  gone  to 
him  and  was  tugging  excitedly  at  his  trouser-leg. 
He  laughed,  and  raising  her  in  his  arms,  sat  her 
on  his  shoulder. 

"And  then,  what,  Honey?"  he  asked.  "Well, 
then  your  Daddy  started  running  at  old  Yellow- 
hand  and  old  Yellowhand  started  running  at  your 
Daddy.  The  fall  had  knocked  the  guns  out  of 
the  hands  of  both  of  us  and  I  knew  it  was  going 
to  be  mighty  touchy  picking  for  your  Daddy  if  he 
ever  slung  his  tomahawk  at  me.  So  I  just  kept 
dodging  around  as  I  went  at  him,  so  that  he'd 
have  a  hard  time  hitting  me,  and  pretty  soon  we 
were  right  at  each  other.  Then 

"Yes " 

"Well,  then,  I  just  jabbed  my  old  bowie  knife 
272 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

in  his  heart  before  he  had  time  to  get  that  toma- 
hawk down  on  my  head  and — that's  all  there  was 
to  it." 

"That's  all?"  The  audience  of  the  hero  in  his 
own  kitchen,  was  more  than  enthusiastic.  Will 
grunted. 

"Well,  not  exactly,"  he  laughed.  "I'd  been 
ragin'  around  like  a  badger  full  of  sand  burrs 
about  what  they'd  done  to  Custer.  And  when  I 
saw  old  Yellowhand  swallowing  dust  there,  I  just 
kept  on  working  that  bowie  knife.  And  almost 
before  I  knew  what  I'd  done,  I'd  'lifted  his  hair' 
and  was  waving  the  scalp  in  the  air. 

'  'First  scalp  for  Custer !'  I  yelled,  and  then 
things  sure  did  happen.  All  those  Dog  Soldiers 
made  a  rush  at  me,  and  all  the  Fifth  Cavalry 
made  a  rush  at  the  Dog  Soldiers,  and  blame  me 
if  they  didn't  hit  each  other  just  about  where  I 
stood.  I  thought  that  fighting  duels  with  Injuns 
was  pretty  good,  but  Mamma,  it  wasn't  anything 
to  what  I'd  gotten  into  from  having  a  couple  of 
armies  running  over  me.  I  never  saw  so  many 
horses'  feet  in  my  life.  And  there  I  was,  just 
running  around  in  circles" — he  laughed  until  the 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks — "waving  this  old 
scalp  and  yelling  'first  scalp  for  Custer'  and  try- 

273 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ing  to  find  some  place  where  somebody  was  shoot- 
ing in  my  direction. 

"Well,  afterwhile  things  began  to  split  up  a 
bit,  and  I  found  a  dead  horse  and  laid  down  be- 
side it.  There  was  a  dead  soldier  laying  there  too, 
so  I  got  his  gun  and  ammunition  and  began 
pumping  away.  Pretty  soon  the  Injuns  hap- 
pened to  remember  that  they  had  a  pressing  en- 
gagement over  the  hill,  and  about  that  time  I  got 
a  new  mount  and  managed  to  catch  up  with  the 
General  just  as  he  was  starting  the  pursuit.  And 
how  we  did  run  those  fellows! 

"My,  Mamma,  but  it  was  good!"  Then  he  sud- 
denly sobered.  "We  didn't  do  much  laughing 
right  then — we  were  too  busy.  There  wasn't  one 
of  us  that  hadn't  some  friend  with  Custer.  I'd 
known  him,  Mamma,  and  I'd  always  admired  him 
— a  lot.  You  know  that.  And  we  were  going  to 
get  revenge.  We  sure  got  it. 

"We  chased  those  Injuns  over  the  hill  and 
thirty-five  miles  toward  the  Red  Cloud  Agency. 
We  drove  'em  so  hard  that  they  lost  horses,  tepees 
and  everything  else.  Well,  they  got  to  the 
agency  and  went  rarin'  in  and  we  went  rarin'  in 
right  after  'em,  and  we  didn't  give  a  rap  how 
many  thousand  Injuns  there  were  around  there. 

274 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

We  were  out  for  blood,  and  we  didn't  care  what 
happened. 

"But  by  the  time  we'd  gotten  to  the  agency 
proper,  it  was  dark,  and  we  couldn't  tell  what 
Injuns  had  been  on  the  warpath  and  what  hadn't. 
There  were  thousands  of  them  around  there  and 
we'd  have  licked  every  one  of  them  if  they'd  ever 
showed  anything  that  looked  like  a  fight.  But 
they  didn't,  Mamma,  they  were  the  meekest  little 
lambs  that  you  ever  did  see.  And  the  first  thing 
you  know,  out  came  an  interpreter  and  asked  me 
if  I'd  condescend  to  talk  to  old  Cut-Nose. 

"Who's  he?"  I  asked. 

'Yellowhand's  father,'  the  interpreter  said. 
Well,  Mamma,  I  kind  of  scratched  my  head.  It's 
one  thing  to  kill  an  old  sonavagun  in  a  duel  and 
another  to  walk  in  and  tell  his  pappy  about  it, 
but  I  took  a  chance.  Know  what  he  wanted? 
Wanted  to  know  if  I'd  take  four  mules  and  some 
beads  and  stuff  for  that  scalp  and  the  warbonnet 
that  I'd  taken  off  of  Yellowhand.  And  you  can't 
guess  what  I  told  him !" 

"What?" 

"I  said  to  him,  just  like  this" — Will  gestured 
scornfully — "that  I  wouldn't  take  forty  mules  for 
that  scalp.  I  said  to  him  that  I  wanted  to  send  it 

275 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

to  my  sweetheart  for  a  souvenir  and  then,  just 
as  soon  as  I  got  where  I  could  box  it  up  I 

"Sent  it  here — and  I  took  one  look  at  it  and 
fainted.  Will  Cody—"  but  I  smiled  as  I 
chided  him — "don't  you  ever  send  me  another  In- 
dian scalp  as  long  as  you  live." 

Will  chuckled,  rumblingly. 

"I'll  do  better  than  that,"  he  promised,  "I'll 
never  scalp  another  Injun!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WILL'S  story  was  more  than  exciting — it  was 
alluring,  for  it  called  up  to  me  all  the  fascination 
of  the  West,  the  West  that  had  gotten  into  my 
blood  and  never  would  leave.  I  wanted  to  go 
back  there;  I  was  tired  of  this  existence  in  the 
East,  and  I  too  had  my  grief  which  I  desired  to 
assuage  in  the  bright,  free  sunshine  of  the  West. 
I  told  my  desires  to  Will. 

"Mamma,"  he  answered.  "You're  going  to 
have  your  wish.  This  season — and  then  we'll 
have  our  home  out  there,  where  I  can  come  in  the 
summertime  and  just  soak  up  the  West  until 
it's  time  to  go  back  to  the  road  again.  Because, 
you  know,  they  still  seem  to  want  me." 

And,  in  fact,  they  were  wanting  him  more  than 
ever.  With  the  beginning  of  the  next  road  sea- 
son, Will  procured  some  real  Indians  from  the 
Red  Cloud  Agency,  among  them  some  of  the 
renegades  that  he  had  helped  to  chase  after  the 
killing  of  Yellowhand.  With  these  appearing  on 
the  stage  in  a  regular  Indian  war  dance,  the 

277 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

show  business  became  more  popular  than  ever, 
and  the  money  rolled  into  the  box  office  in  a  con- 
stantly increasing  stream. 

I  traveled  with  Will  nearly  all  that  season, 
carrying  our  youngest  baby  with  us,  while  Arta 
attended  a  seminary  in  Rochester.  Then,  in 
February,  I  said  good-by  to  the  East — and  a  glad 
"hello"  to  the  West  I  loved. 

It  was  a  new  West  that  I  went  to.  Changes 
had  come,  even  in  the  few  years  I  had  been  away. 
The  work  of  Will  Cody  and  others  of  his  kind 
had  driven  the  Indians  far  from  the  settled  lines 
of  communication  between  the  East  and  the  far 
West,  with  the  result  that  North  Platte,  Neb., 
near  the  Wyoming  line,  was  a  busy  little  place 
now,  and  growing  constantly.  It  was  there,  on 
a  farm  which  Will  had  purchased  near  town — 
he  also  had  bought  a  tremendous  ranch  on  Dismal 
River  sixty  miles  away,  in  partnership  with 
Major  North,  the  former  commander  of  the 
Pawnee  scouts — that  I  was  to  make  my  home. 
And  a  far  different  home  it  was  to  be  from  the 
little  log  cabin  in  which  we  had  lived  at  Fort  Mc- 
Pherson. 

We  had  money  now,  plenty  of  it.  Never  was 
there  a  losing  day  with  the  show  in  which  Will 

278 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

was  appearing.  Never  was  there  a  time  when 
records  for  attendance  were  not  broken,  while 
thousands  who  sought  to  see  Will  were  turned 
away.  The  plays  had  become  better  now,  and 
Will's  acting  had  reached  something  that  bore  a 
semblance  to  a  real  stage  presence.  But  let  it  be 
said  to  his  credit  that  he  never  really  became  an 
actor  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  First  and 
last  he  was  a  plainsman,  with  the  plainsman's 
voice  and  the  plainsman's  bearing — and  it  was 
this  which  made  him  even  more  popular. 

Yes,  it  was  indeed  a  far  different  home.  Fur- 
nishings came  all  the  way  from  Chicago  and  New 
York.  The  lumber  had  been  hauled  across  coun- 
try, and  there,  out  on  the  plains,  we  built  a  house 
that  was  little  less  than  a  mansion.  And  it  was 
there  that  I  greeted  Will  when  he  finished  his 
season  in  May. 

The  summer  months  passed,  while  we  rode  the 
plains,  made  a  trip  through  the  tumbling  hills  to 
Dismal  River,  hunted  and  fished  and  lived  the 
true  life  of  the  West.  Will  had  bought  great 
herds  of  cattle  in  partnership  with  Major  North, 
and  had  caused  them  to  be  driven  cross  country 
from  the  eastern  part  of  the  state,  while  all  about 
us  ranchers  were  beginning  to  take  up  their 

279 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

claims  and  begin  the  life  that  Will  had  always 
dreamed  for  the  West.  The  untrammeled 
"Great  American  Desert"  was  beginning  to  fade 
forever.  There  was  need  of  irrigation — and 
Will's  money  flowed  freely  into  the  projects. 
And  where  water  flowed  upon  soil  properly 
treated,  there  did  the  desert  blossom.  Again  a 
dream  that  Buffalo  Bill  had  cherished  for  years, 
came  into  the  being  of  reality. 

A  hazy,  beautiful  summer.  Then  Will  went 
away,  almost  boyish  in  his  reluctance  to  leave  the 
West.  But  before  he  went 

"I've  been  thinking  of  something  all  this  sum- 
mer, Mamma,"  he  told  me,  "something  that  will 
please  you  if  I  am  able  to  work  it  out.  I  won't 
tell  you  what  it  is  now — it  will  take  a  lot  of 
planning  and  a  lot  of  money.  But  it  won't  be 
this  stage  business;  I'm  sick  of  it!" 

"And  so  am  I!"  I  agreed.  "I  wish  there  was 
something  else,  Will 

He  laughed. 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  figure  out!"  he 
told  me  happily.  "And  some  day  I  may  be  able 
to  do  it!" 

It  was  years,  however,  before  he  succeeded, 
years  in  which  I  added  to  his  ranch,  and  attended 

280 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

to  the  thousand  and  one  details  of  farming  life 
that  must  be  looked  after,  while  he  was  away  on 
the  stage;  years  in  which  a  new  daughter  Irma 
came  to  us,  and  in  which  one  went  away.  For 
Orra,  the  second  of  our  children  to  be  born  in 
that  little  log  cabin  at  Fort  McPherson,  died, 
to  be  taken  back  to  Rochester  and  buried  beside 
her  little  companion  of  those  days  of  uncertainty, 
Kit  Carson ;  years  in  which  both  Will  and  myself 
tired  more  and  more  of  the  rough  and  tumble 
plays  in  which  he  toured  the  country.  Then,  at 
last,  came  the  outline  of  the  great  scheme. 

"I  want  to  talk  it  all  over  with  you  first, 
Mamma,"  he  said  one  night  as  we  sat  in  the  big 
living  room  of  our  North  Platte  home.  "You're 
the  first  one  I've  told  about  it  and  if  you  don't 
like  it " 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  yet,  Will." 

"That's  right !  Don't  know  just  where  to  start. 
Well,  the  idea  is  this.  All  these  people  back 
East  want  to  find  out  just  what  the  West  looks 
like.  And  you  can't  tell  them  on  a  stage.  There 
ain't  the  room.  So  why  not  just  take  the  West 
right  to  'em?" 

"How?"  I  was  staring. 
281 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"On  railroad  trains!"  Will  was  more  than 
excited  now.  And  so  was  I — but  dubious. 

"I  don't  understand.    Do  you  mean  to — 

"Take  the  prairies  and  the  Injuns  and  every- 
thing else  right  to  'em.  That's  the  idea!  There 
ain't  the  room  on  a  stage  to  do  anything  worth 
while.  But  there  would  be  on  a  big  lot,  where 
we  could  have  horses  and  buffalo  and  the  old 
Deadwood  stagecoach  and  everything!  How  does 
it  sound,  Mamma?" 

"Fine!"  I  was  as  enthusiastic  as  he.  "And, 
Will,  you  can  get  that  old  Deadwood  stage- 
coach too.  I  heard  just  the  other  day  that  it 
hadn't  been  used  lately — you  mean  the  one  that 
was  held  up  so  many  times?" 

"That's  the  one.  They've  put  a  new  one  in  its 
place  and  they  want  to  get  rid  of  this  old  one. 
Seem  to  think  it's  unlucky  or  something  of  the 
kind.  And,  Mamma,  we  could  have  that  run 
around  the  show-grounds  and  have  the  Injuns 
chase  it,  just  like  they  really  did  chase  it,  then 
have  the  scouts  and  everybody  come  along  and 
run  the  Injuns  away.  Wouldn't  that  be  fun?" 

"Oh,  Will!  And  have  real  people  in  the  stage- 
coach and  let  them  shoot  blanks  at  the  Indians 

and " 

282 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Sure!  Tell  you  what,  Mamma,  that'd  be 
something  they'd  never  seen  before.  That'd  be 
showing  'em  the  West!" 

So  together  we  talked  it  all  over,  like  two  en- 
thusiastic, happy  children  planning  a  ''play- 
show"  in  the  back  yard*  Then  Will  began  to 
make  his  arrangements,  first  with  Doctor  Carver, 
who  lived  in  the  city  and  who  had  a  number  of 
trained  horses,  then  with  Merrill  Keith,  also  of 
North  Platte,  who  had  tamed  some  buffalo  and 
had  them  grazing  around  his  house,  with  Buck 
Taylor,  a  cowboy,  and  with  the  various  plains- 
men about  the  adjacent  country.  And  finally, 
one  day,  we  all  went  down  to  a  large,  open  space 
behind  the  railroad  depot,  to  hold  the  first  re- 
hearsal. 

It  wasn't  exactly  what  could  be  called  a  per- 
formance. And  it  wasn't  a  rehearsal.  Some  one 
would  run  out  a  steer  and  Buck  Taylor  would 
lasso  it,  while  Will  and  I  sat  on  a  pile  of  ties, 
lending  our  judicious  wisdom  to  the  arranging  of 
the  performance.  Then  the  buffalo  would  be 
shunted  in  from  the  cattleyard,  and  Will  would 
leap  upon  a  horse  and  pursue  them.  After  this, 
would  come  his  introduction  and  his  greeting  to 
the  audience — of  which  I  formed  about  ninety- 

283 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

nine  per  cent,  and  my  baby  Irma,  less  than  a 
year  old,  the  rest.  And  invariably,  when  it  was 
over,  Will  would  turn  to  me  and  ask: 

"How  was  that,  Mamma?" 

"I  liked  it,  Will,"  I  would  answer.  "But  will 
you  have  to  talk  so  loud?" 

"Loud?"  Then  he  would  laugh.  "Why, 
Mamma,  they're  making  a  canvas  wall  back  East 
to  go  around  this  rigout  that  will  be  so  long  you 
can't  see  from  one  end  to  the  other!" 

Thus  the  practising  went  on,  while  Will,  in 
lieu  of  glass  balls,  would  throw  tin  cans  into  the 
air,  and  shoot  at  them,  that  he  might  see  just  how 
his  "expert  rifle  shooting"  would  appear.  One 
by  one  new  ideas  came,  and  gradually  the  show 
began  to  shape  itself  into  the  beginning  of  the 
tremendous  affair  that  was  to  come  in  later  years. 
The  Pine  Ridge  Indian  agency  was  not  so  far 
away  and  Will  went  there,  making  his  arrange- 
ments for  the  Indians  who  were  to  accompany 
the  show,  to  chase  the  Old  Deadwood  stagecoach, 
to  do  their  war  dances  and  appear  in  the  parades. 
For  Will  and  I  had  been  reading  up  on  circuses 
now,  and  felt  that  we  knew  just  what  should  be 
done. 

But  we  didn't.  We  didn't  know  the  first  thing 
284 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

about  it.  Nor  was  it  until  Nate  Salsbury,  well 
versed  in  all  the  necessities  of  showmanship,  came 
into  the  combination,  that  the  actual  arrange- 
ments for  the  tour  began  to  take  shape.  And 
during  this  time — 

Near  us  lived  a  little  boy  whom  Will  loved. 
Johnny  Baker  was  his  name,  a  grinning,  amiable 
little  fellow  who  worshipped  the  very  ground 
that  Will  walked  upon,  and  who  loved  nothing 
better  than  to  sit  on  Will's  knee  in  the  long  eve- 
nings and  listen  to  the  stories  of  the  plains.  And 
when  the  "practising"  began  down  behind  the 
depot,  Johnny  Baker  would  be  sure  to  appear 
somewhere,  watching  wide-eyed,  wondering, 
while  the  performance  went  through  its  various 
phases.  And  at  last  he  summoned  the  courage 
to  ask  what  was  in  his  heart. 

"Buffalo  Bill,"  he  said  one  day,  "I  wish  I 
could  go  with  you." 

Will  laughed. 

"What  would  you  do  in  a  Wild  West  show, 
Johnny?" 

But  Johnny  Baker  had  an  answer: 

"Well,  I  could  black  your  boots — and — and — 
make  myself  awful  handy !" 

So  a  new  actor  was  signed  up  for  the  Buffalo 
285 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Bill  Wild  West  aggregation — Master  John 
Baker.  Will  had  taught  him  to  shoot  in  the  days 
in  which  he  had  played  around  our  house — in 
fact,  there  never  was  a  time  when  guns  were  not 
booming  around  there  and  Will  was  not  shooting 
coins  out  of  his  children's  fingers,  while  I  stood 
on  the  veranda  and  gasped  a  remonstrance  that 
the  first  thing  he  knew,  he  would  have  a  finger- 
less  family!  All  about  the  house  were  shells  and 
shells  and  more  shells,  while  every  tree,  every 
fence  post,  was  at  one  time,  or  another,  the  rest- 
ing place  of  some  sort  of  a  target.  And  when 
Johnny  Baker  joined  the  show,  it  was  to  shoot  in 
the  performance  as  a  "Boy  Wonder."  And  he 
lived  up  to  his  name,  for  there  came  the  time 
when  the  "official  announcer"  would  roar  forth 
to  the  assembled  throngs: 

"And  now-w-w-w-w,  allow-w-w  me  to  intro- 
duce to  you,  Johnny  Baker,  champion  trick  rifle 
shot  of  the  world!" 

Thus  was  another  actor  made — and  for  that 
matter,  the  whole  thing  was  new  to  practically 
everyone  who  took  a  part.  Not  that  they  were 
doing  a  thing  that  was  new  to  them  in  their  ren- 
dition of  the  life  on  the  plains — but  doing  it  in  a 
new  atmosphere,  and  before  an  audience.  Or  at 

286 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

least,  they  were  to  do  it  before  an  audience,  and 
constantly  Will  would  shout  to  them  as  they 
practised  behind  the  depot: 

"Now,  boys,  when  we  start  this  rigout  just 
don't  you  pay  any  attention  to  the  folks  on  the 
seats.  Forget  all  about  them.  Just  you  don't 
know  they're  there  and  you  won't  get  scared." 

But,  for  that  matter,  it  was  to  be  a  different 
thing  from  an  appearance  on  the  stage.  There 
would  be  the  big,  wide  lot  in  which  to  work, 
horses  and  solid  ground  and  excitement.  There 
would  be  no  lines  for  the  men  of  the  saddle  and 
the  lariat — and  practically  every  cowman  who  ac- 
companied that  exhibition  could  rope  and  tie  a 
steer  with  his  eyes  shut — to  say  nothing  of  riding 
the  wildest  horse  that  ever  ran,  without  half  try- 
ing. 

So,  day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  the 
rehearsals  went  on.  Out  from  the  East  came  the 
faithful  Major  Burke  to  ask  and  receive  the  right 
to  prepare  the  advance  for  the  show,  to  look  after 
the  posting  of  the  great  bills  that  were  being  run 
off  on  the  big  presses  in  Chicago,  and  to  "attend" 
to  the  newspapers.  He  came  and  he  went  again 
— the  show  was  nearing  its  debut. 

Finally,  arrived  the  time  when  we  all  jour- 
287 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

neyed  to  Omaha,  there  to  find  great  railroad  cars 
that  had  been  arranged  for  by  Mr.  Salsbury  and 
painted  with  the  name  of  Buffalo  Bill.  The  long 
stretches  of  canvas  had  been  put  in  place  on  the 
show  lot  and  the  seats  erected.  And  it  was  there 
that  the  first  performance  of  Buffalo  Bill's  Wild 
West  saw  the  light  of  the  show  world. 

And  what  a  different  thing  it  was  from  those 
foolish  plays  in  which  Will  had  been  forced  by 
public  demand  to  appear !  How  clean,  how  sharp 
and  bright,  and  how  truly  it  depicted  the  West! 
Here  was  something  that  he  could  love  and  I 
could  love — and  we  put  into  it  everything  that 
our  hearts  possessed.  With  the  plays  it  had  been 
a  different  matter;  they  were  only  a  mockery, 
only 

"Why,  gosh,  Mamma,"  Will  had  said  to  me 
after  the  ending  of  one  season,  "I'd  just  like  to 
know  how  many  dramatic  critics  went  crazy  try- 
ing to  figure  out  the  plot  of  that  thing.  I  ap- 
peared in  it  all  season  and  I  learned  my  lines,  but 
I'm  jiggered  if  I  ever  could  find  any  head  or 
tail  of  it.  The  only  time  that  it  got  good  was 
when  the  Injuns  came  on  and  got  killed.  And 
even  that  got  tiresome!" 

But  with  the  Wild  West  show,  it  was  different. 
288 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Here  was  riding,  and  here  was  roping;  here  the 
buffalo  thundered  along  in  their  milling  herd, 
while  Will  and  the  assembled  cowboys  circled 
them  and  displayed  the  manner  in  which  the  herds 
were  hunted  and  the  bison  killed  on  the  plains. 
Here  was  the  Old  Deadwood  stagecoach,  and  its 
story  was  one  of  realism.  It  was  not  merely  a  bit 
of  "faking,"  or  of  stage  scenery;  it  was  the 
original  stage,  scarred  by  the  bullets  of  Indians 
and  highwaymen,  its  accouterments  rusted 
where  it  had  lain  by  the  side  of  the  road  for 
months  at  a  time  after  some  massacre,  in  which 
its  horses  had  been  killed  and  it  abandoned.  Here 
was  Will,  riding  at  a  full  gallop,  his  reins  loose 
on  his  horse's  neck,  while,  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder, 
he  popped  the  glass  balls  that  were  thrown  up 
ahead  of  him,  never  dreaming  that  he  was  work- 
ing for  a  living — he  was  merely  playing,  playing 
just  as  he  had  played  out  on  the  broad  expanses 
of  the  fields  near  our  home  in  North  Platte,  where 
the  ground  was  covered  with  the  shells  resultant 
from  target  shooting. 

Here  were  the  Indians,  real  Indians,  who  had 
come  straight  from  the  reservation  and  who  had 
sufficient  faith  in  the  prowess  of  Pahaska  to  en- 
trust themselves  to  him.  An  Indian  is  a  chary 

289 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

creature.  He  reveres  the  man  who  can  fight  him 
and  whip  him — and  for  that  reason,  even  the 
worst  red-skinned  enemy  of  Pahaska  looked  up 
to  him  as  a  worthy  foe — and  as  a  friend  when  the 
opportunity  came  to  bury  the  hatchet. 

So  we  were  happy — for  were  we  not  still  liv- 
ing in  the  West?  Though  we  might  travel  to 
far  parts  of  the  world,  here  was  the  country  we 
loved,  still  with  us — the  cowpunchers,  the  In- 
dians, the  plainsmen  and  scouts,  the  atmosphere 
and  the  life  and  the  excitement. 

Never  was  there  a  show  which  was  more  wel- 
comed than  Will's  on  that  opening  day  in  Omaha. 
And  as  for  Chicago 

I  can't  remember  the  name  of  the  place  now. 
All  I  know  that  it  was  indoors,  with  boxes  for 
prominent  persons,  with  a  tanbark  ring,  and  with 
poor  old  Major  Burke  running  around  like  the 
proverbial  be-headed  chicken.  For  this  was  a 
big  city,  and  here  the  test  would  come  in  earnest. 
And  success  meant  worlds! 

Our  every  cent  was  in  that  show  now.  It  had 
cost  thousands  and  thousands  to  purchase  the 
equipment,  to  hire  the  actors  and  to  transport 
the  big  organization  across  the  country.  Other 
thousands  were  tied  up  in  printing  and  the 

290 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

salaries  of  men  going  on  in  the  advance  to  make 
the  arrangements  for  the  show's  coming.  And  if 
we  failed  in  Chicago,  we  knew  that  failure  would 
follow  us  everywhere. 

An  anxious  day  of  preparation.  Then  to- 
gether, Will  and  I,  from  one  of  the  entrances, 
watched  the  filling  of  the  seats.  For  a  long  time, 
it  seemed  that  the  great  stretches  of  vacancy 
would  never  be  eradicated,  in  spite  of  the  crowds 
that  were  flooding  in  through  the  doorways. 
Then,  at  last,  every  seat  was  gone,  every  avail- 
able bit  of  space  taken,  and  the  show  began. 

The  first  entrance  brought  applause.  This 
grew  to  cheers  and  shouts.  Throughout  the  long 
program  the  audience  clapped  and  shouted  its  ap- 
proval. Time  after  time  Will  was  called  forth, 
mounted  on  his  big,  sleek  horse,  to  receive  the  ap- 
proval of  the  tremendous  crowds.  There  was  no 
worriment  after  that — our  fortunes  were  made. 

Throughout  the  East  went  the  show,  and  its 
fame  went  before  it — to  say  nothing  of  Major 
Burke,  traveling  on  and  on,  ever  before,  and 
talking  constantly  of  just  one  being — William 
Frederick  Cody.  For  Burke  had  transferred  all 
the  love  that  he  had  felt  for  Mile.  Morlacchi,  his 

291 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

goddess,  to  Will,  his  god,  and  never  was  there  a 
man  more  devoted. 

Once  upon  a  time — it  was  years  later — in 
Portland,  Oregon,  a  city  editor  leaned  across  his 
desk  to  his  star  reporter,  and  handed  him  an  as- 
signment slip. 

"Major  Burke's  over  at  the  Multomah,"  he 
ordered.  "Go  over  and  get  an  interview  with 
him.  What  I  want  you  to  do" — and  the  city 
editor  smiled — "is  to  try  to  get  him  to  talk  about 
something  else  besides  Buffalo  Bill.  Try  him  on 
everything  that  you  can  think  about  that's  foreign 
to  Cody  and  see  if  you  can't  get  him  off  the  sub- 
ject for  once  in  his  life.  If  you  can  do  that, 
you've  got  a  good  story." 

The  reporter  went  on  his  mission.  And  when 
he  came  back  two  hours  later,  it  was  with  a  worn 
and  wan  expression. 

"A  fine  thing  you  got  me  into!"  he  said  jok- 
ingly. "I'm  about  half  dead." 

"Why?"  The  city  editor's  innocent  look  had  a 
smile  behind  it. 

"Why?  Say,  listen,  I  went  over  there  to  the 
Multomah  and  got  hold  of  Major  Burke.  I  got 
him  started  on  the  Balkan  situation,  and  during 
the  first  minute  he  mentioned  at  least  ten  times, 

292 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ten  different  things  that  William  Frederick 
Cody  would  do  if  he  could  only  go  over  there  and 
get  into  the  scrap.  Then  I  tried  another  tack 
and  he  was  back  at  me  on  that.  I  changed  to 
something  else  and  he  used  the  word  'Cody'  on 
an  average  of  once  every  five  seconds.  Then  I 
made  the  mistake  of  mentioning  something  about 
the  name  of  the  hotel  and  the  fact  that  it  must  be 
of  Indian  origin.  That  was  my  finish  right  there. 
Burke  backed  me  up  in  a  corner  and  told  me 
Buffalo  Bill's  Indian  fighting  history  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave.  I'm  all  worn  out !" 

And  not  once,  during  all  of  this,  had  Major 
Burke  known  the  object  of  that  visit.  Nor  did 
he  feel  that  he  was  duty  bound  to  mention  Will's 
name — it  was  simply  the  blind  adoration  of  a  man 
who  could  think  nothing  else,  dream  nothing  else, 
know  nothing  else,  but  Buffalo  Bill. 

Boys  they  were  in  their  companionship,  joking, 
laughing,  bickering  boys,  always  having  some 
foolish  disagreement,  walking  away  from  each 
other  to  pout  a  while,  then,  finally  to  end  up 
arm  in  arm,  cemented  by  bonds  that  no  quarrel 
ever  could  weaken.  And  only  once  did  one  of 
those  quarrels  ever  amount  to  serious  propor- 
tions, stormy  as  they  might  be. 

293 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

It  was  in  Italy,  and  Will  had  ordered  certain 
preparations  made  at  the  docks.  He  arrived  there 
to  find  that  they  had  not  been  made,  and  what 
was  more,  that  Major  John  M.  Burke  was  among 
the  missing.  Will's  arms  went  wide. 

"Where's  Old  Scarf  ace!"  he  shouted— a  long, 
jagged  scar  on  one  side  of  Major  Burke's  cheek 
had  given  him  the  name.  "Go  out  and  find  him. 
I  want  to  know  why  he  wasn't  around  here  when 
this  ship  came  in!" 

Out  went  the  emissaries,  to  search  here  and 
there,  and  at  last  to  find  Major  John  M.  Burke, 
sweating  and  bedraggled  in  an  Italian  newspaper 
office.  He  had  lost  his  interpreter,  press  time 
was  coming,  and  John  M.  Burke  was  trying  to 
tell  the  story  of  the  coming  of  the  Wild  West 
show  to  an  Italian  editor  who  didn't  understand 
a  word  of  English.  There  they  were,  waving 
their  arms  at  each  other,  both  shouting  at  the 
top  of  their  voices,  and  neither  able  to  make  the 
other  understand.  The  searching  party  dragged 
the  Major  away  and  down  to  the  docks.  Will, 
his  show  delayed,  the  arrangements  for  its  arrival 
lacking,  took  one  look  at  the  Major  and  waved 
his  arms  wildly. 

294 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"John  Burke!"  he  shouted.  "You're  fired! 
Understand  that?  You're  fired!" 

"I  understand,"  came  the  answer,  as  the  ad- 
vance man  turned  dolefully  away.  Five  hours 
later,  Mr.  Salisbury,  in  London,  received  a  tele- 
gram which  read : 

My  scalp  hangs  in  the  tepee  of  Pahaska  at  the  foot  of 
Mount  Vesuvius.  Please  send  me  money  to  take  me  back 
to  the  Land  of -the  Free  and  the  Home  of  the  Brave. 

But  before  Mr.  Salisbury  could  even  send  a 
cable  asking  the  cause  of  the  disturbance,  the 
world  was  smooth  again,  and  the  god  and  his 
admirer  were  arm  in  arm  once  more. 

Far  ahead  of  my  story  I  have  gone,  it  is  true — 
but  only  by  such  an  illustration  could  I  convey 
the  devotion  of  the  man  who  traveled  ahead  of 
the  show  as  it  made  its  first  trip  through  the 
country.  The  season  ended  and  we  went  back 
to  North  Platte,  there  to  plan  and  scheme  again, 
and  to  dream  of  greater  things  for  the  coming 
season,  things  that  would  portray  every  feature 
of  the  winning  of  the  West.  That  season  came, 
and  another  after  it.  Then  arrived  the  beginning 
of  Will's  trip  of  triumph. 

We  both  had  talked  about  it  often,  and  made 
our  arrangements.  I  was  to  stay  at  home  and 

295 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

look  after  the  business  of  the  ranch,  while  Will 
was  away.  And  he — he  was  going  to  a  new  ad- 
venture, Europe! 

It  was  through  Will's  letters  that  I  followed 
him  on  that  trip,  through  the  chartering  of  the 
Steamer  Nebraska  to  carry  his  aggregation  to 
England,  his  arrival  there,  his  opening  perform- 
ance and  then,  the  visits  of  Gladstone,  of  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales,  and  even  of  Queen 
Victoria  herself.  And  judging  from  those  let- 
ters, there  was  enjoyment  in  every  bit  of  it  all. 

"What  do  you  think,  Mamma,"  he  wrote  me 
once.  "I've  just  held  four  kings!  And  I  was 
the  joker!  It  wasn't  a  card  game,  either.  You 
remember  the  old  stage  coach?  Well,  I  got  a  re- 
quest from  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  let  him  ride 
on  the  seat  with  me,  while  inside  would  be  the 
kings  of  Denmark,  Saxony,  Greece  and  Austria. 
Well,  I  didn't  know  just  what  to  say  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  was  a  little  worried  and  yet  I  couldn't 
tell  the  Prince  of  Wales  that  I  was  afraid  to 
haul  around  four  kings,  with  Indians  shooting 
blanks  around.  So  I  just  said  I  was  as  honored 
as  all  getout,  and  we  made  the  arrangements. 

"And,  Mamma,  I  just  had  to  have  my  joke,  so 
I  went  around  and  told  the  Indians  to  whoop  it 

296 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

up  as  they  never  did  before.  We  loaded  all  the 
kings  in  there  and  the  Prince  got  up  on  the  seat 
with  me,  and  then  I  just  cut  'er  loose.  We  sure 
did  rock  around  that  arena,  with  the  Indians 
yelling  and  shooting  behind  us,  fit  to  kill.  And 
Mamma, — I  wouldn't  say  it  out  loud — but  I'm 
pretty  sure  that  before  the  ride  was  over,  most 
of  those  kings  were  under  the  seat.  It  sure  was 
fun. 

"When  the  ride  stopped,  the  Prince  of  Wales 
said  to  me  that  he  bet  this  was  the  first  time  that 
I'd  ever  held  four  kings.  I  told  him  that  I'd 
held  four  kings  before,  but  this  was  the  first  time 
that  I'd  ever  acted  as  the  royal  joker.  Well,  he 
laughed  and  laughed.  Then  he  had  to  explain  it 
to  all  those  kings,  each  in  his  own  langauge — and 
I  felt  kind  of  sorry  for  him. 

"The  Prince  gave  me  a  souvenir,  a  sort  of 
crest,  with  diamonds  all  around  it.  It  sure  is 
pretty  and  I'm  real  proud  of  it." 

Thus  went  Will's  trip  to  England,  and  he 
came  home  a  greater  idol  to  the  American  small 
boy  than  ever.  For  three  years  his  show  did 
not  move  from  Staten  Island,  and  then  it  was 
only  to  return  to  Europe  again,  that  he  might 
repeat  in  France,  Spain,  Italy  and  other  coun- 

297 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

tries,  what  he  had  done  in  England,  there  to  meet 
the  rulers  and  potentates  and  receive  from  them 
gifts  and  souvenirs  of  their  appreciation.  Nor 
did  the  Pope  refuse  his  presence  when  Will  Cody 
went  to  pay  his  respects. 

By  this  time,  Will  had  become  a  true  show- 
man. Everything  he  saw,  everywhere  he  went, 
he  found  something  to  intertwine  with  the  thing 
that  had  become,  the  realization  of  a  great  dream 
for  him — his  Wild  West  show.  Witness: 

"I've  just  come  back  from  an  interesting  trip 
out  to  see  the  Coliseum,"  he  wrote  me  once.  "You 
know,  that  is  the  place  where  all  the  ancient 
Romans  used  to  gather  and  stick  their  thumbs 
up  or  down  when  the  gladiators  came  out  to  fight. 
That  was  where  the  lions  used  to  eat  up  the  Chris- 
tians too,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  thought 
it  would  be  fine  if  I  could  take  my  Wild  West 
show  out  there  and  give  the  performances  inside 
the  old  place  and  really  show  these  Romans  how 
the  Americans  whoop  it  up.  Well,  I  looked  all 
over  the  place,  but  it's  pretty  well  decayed.  It's 
all  falling  to  pieces,  and  it  wouldn't  do  for  a 
show  at  all.  So  I  guess  I'll  have  to  give  up  the 
idea." 

On  and  on  the  show  went  through  Europe,  and 
298 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

then  packed  up  for  the  winter  at  the  little  village 
of  Benfield,  in  Alsace-Lorraine,  while  Will 
hurried  back  to  this  country  for  a  rest  until  the 
season  should  open  again.  And  hardly  had  he 
landed  when  there  came  the  call  for  him — the  old 
call  of  the  West,  of  the  saddle  and  the  rifle.  For 
the  Indians  had  broken  forth  in  their  last  cam- 
paign on  the  warpath. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FAR  out  into  Nevada,  lured  by  some  mysteri- 
ous message  that  no  one  ever  could  trace,  emis- 
saries of  the  Sioux  Tribe  had  been  lured  to  hear 
a  greeting  from  a  man  who  called  himself  God. 
Some  innocent  fool  of  a  faker  he  was,  who  had 
even  gone  to  the  extent  of  piercing  his  hands,  or 
burning  them  with  acid,  that  they  might  simulate 
the  scars  on  the  hands  of  Jesus  Christ.  Some- 
where he  had  learned  a  few  of  the  tricks  of 
electricity  and  had  procured  some  electrical  bat- 
teries and  fireworks.  And  with  these,  he  planned 
to  delude  the  Indians. 

Why?  No  one  ever  knew  or  ever  will  know. 
But  the  Indians  went,  selected  from  their  various 
tribes,  to  hear  his  message,  and  then  to  hurry 
back  to  their  camps  again.  Twisted  and  warped 
became  that  message.  The  Indians,  fretting 
under  government  supervision  and  under  a 
system  of  rations  that  was  not  always  plentiful, 
leaped  at  anything  that  sounded  to  them  like  a 
prophecy  of  a  return  to  the  old  days  of  the  plains. 

800 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"Ghost  shirts"  made  their  appearance,  cheap, 
cotton  things,  made  by  the  Indians  from  pieces 
of  sacking,  and  splotched  with  ochre  and  red 
paint.  Here,  there,  everywhere,  the  story 
traveled  that  these  shirts  would  be  bullet  proof, 
that  the  Sioux  might  again  take  to  the  warpath, 
and  that  this  time,  they  need  not  fear  the  bullets 
of  the  palefaces.  Throughout  the  Dakota  coun- 
tries, the  tom-toms  began  to  beat  and  the  Indians 
to  weave  themselves  in  their  weird  dances  about 
the  camp  fires.  Couriers  hastened  to  Sitting  Bull, 
requesting  that  he  take  part  in  the  campaign. 
General  Miles  hurried  from  Chicago,  and  Will 
rushed  toward  Sitting  Bull,  that  he  might 
persuade  the  old  warrior  to  remain  on  the  path 
of  peace.  But  before  Will  could  reach  him, 
Sitting  Bull  had  been  killed  by  some  of  his  own 
people. 

And  then — Wounded  Knee.  The  troops  had 
been  seeking  to  cut  off  the  Indians  under  Big 
Foot  from  joining  other  forces  that  had  reached 
the  Bad  Lands.  The  Seventh  Cavalry  had  sur- 
rounded them,  and  the  order  had  gone  forth  that 
the  Indians  must  surrender  their  arms.  This 
they  were  doing  when — 

A  shot!  No  one  ever  knew  just  whence  it 
301 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILIJ 

came — whether  from  some  soldier  who  had 
touched  a  trigger  by  accident,  or  from  some  In- 
dian, crazed  by  the  exhortations  of  the  medicine 
men,  dancing  about,  chanting  and  playing  on 
their  bone  pipes  as  they  called  for  the  Messiah 
to  come  to  their  aid.  But  the  shot  came,  and 
with  it  terror. 

Indians  and  soldiers  milled,  the  Indians  fight- 
ing with  their  knives,  the  soldiers  with  their  guns 
— even  to  the  Hotchkiss  cannon,  which  sent  its 
great  charges  of  shrapnel  shrilling  through  the 
little  valley  of  Wounded  Knee  creek,  killing 
braves  and  bucks,  squaws  and  papooses  indis- 
criminately. It  was  bitterly  cold — here,  there  the 
Indians  ran,  seeking  some  escape;  but  there  was 
none.  When  night  came  their  bodies  dotted  the 
frozen  valley,  and  the  snow  of  a  blizzard  was  be- 
ginning to  kill  those  who  had  not  died  of  their 
wounds. 

It  was  to  a  scene  like  this  that  General  Miles 
and  Will  Cody  rode  the  next  day.  With  the 
first  news  of  the  conflict,  they  had  ridden  their 
hardest  to  reach  the  battlefield  that  they  might 
quell  the  fight,  but  in  vain.  And  now  they  looked 
upon  only  the  slain,  crumpled,  frozen  forms  of 
those  who  had  fallen.  The  last  Indian  uprising 

302 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

was  at  an  end — now  must  come  the  real  struggle, 
to  so  pacify  the  Indians,  and  to  so  convince  them 
of  the  foolishness  of  their  quest  that  never  again 
would  they  seek  to  pit  themselves  against  the 
overpowering  elements  of  the  American  Army. 
And  it  was  through  General  Miles  and  Will 
Cody  that  this  was  accomplished. 

A  last  great  council  was  held.  Haranguers 
told  the  stories  of  the  Great  White  Chiefs.  One 
by  one  General  Miles  made  his  promises  for  the 
future — that  he  would  see  that  there  was  good 
treatment  for  the  Indians — that  the  Indians  must 
make  good  their  promise  to  stay  clear  of  the  war- 
path, and  to  this  purpose  furnish  hostages  whose 
lives  would  be  forfeit  should  the  promise  fail.  To 
this  Pahaska  added  his  promises  and  then — 

"And  if  you  follow  the  path  of  peace,  I  will 
try  to  be  good  to  these  braves  that  you  hand  into 
our  keeping.  I  will  take  them  over  the  great 
waters  to  strange  countries.  I  will  be  kind  to 
them." 

And  Will  made  good  his  promise,  for  when  the 
peace  pipe  was  smoked  at  last,  Will  left  for 
Europe  with  a  new  assembly  of  Indians  for  his 
Wild  West  show,  Kicking  Bear,  Lone  Bear,  No 
Neck,  Yankton  Carlie,  Black  Heart,  Long  Wolf, 

303 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Scatter,  Revenge,  and  the  man  upon  whom  all 
blame  for  the  Indian  uprising  had  been  placed, 
Ta-ta-la  Slotsla,  Short  Bull.  Nor  was  it  until 
twenty  years  later,  that  Will  and  I — or  any  white 
person,  for  that  matter,  were  to  hear  the  real,  the 
pitiful  story  of  Ta-ta-la  Slotsla,  and  his  journey 
to  God  that  caused  the  death  of  so  many  of  his 
tribesmen. 

Times  had  changed.  The  West  had  grown 
from  that  brawny,  brawling  youngster  that  we 
had  known  in  the  younger  days,  to  a  stalwart 
youth,  with  its  great  cities,  with  its  tremendous 
ranches,  its  factories  and  its  industries.  It  was 
what  Will  had  dreamed  back  there  in  the  old 
days  when  he  was  simply  Will  Cody  and  I  his 
frightened  young  wife,  making  my  first  friend- 
ships with  this  wild,  free  West  I  really  feared. 
Up  in  Wyoming,  a  town  had  spread  itself  near 
the  canon  of  the  Shoshone,  and  its  name  was  that 
of  Cody.  Down  in  Arizona  were  irrigation  and 
mining  projects  that  owed  their  birth  to  Will. 
The  thing  that  had  been  a  desert  once  was  bloom- 
ing now.  The  Old  West  was  nearly  gone.  And 
to  Will  there  came  an  inspiration,  that  of  sealing 
the  picture  while  yet  there  was  the  chance,  to  do 
in  film  what  he  had  done  in  his  Wild  West  shows, 

304 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

and  to  make  for  posterity  a  thing  that  would  live 
forever. 

"I  can  get  the  capital!"  he  confided  to  me  with 
a  boyish  enthusiasm  that  belied  the  sixty  or  more 
years  that  had  come  to  him.  "I  can  get  the  out- 
fits— and  why,  Mamma,  wouldn't  it  be  just  the 
thing  to  go  down  into  Dakota  and  put  the  last 
outbreak  of  the  Sioux  into  motion  pictures?  I've 
written  General  Miles  about  it,  and  General 
Frank  Baldwin  down  in  Denver,  and  General 
Maus  and  Lee  and  all  the  others.  They'll  come. 
And  then  we'll  send  a  copy  of  it  to  the  govern- 
ment files  for  history." 

"But  Will—  "  I  smiled  as  I  used  to  smile  in 
the  old  days — "how  about  the  Indians?" 

"They'll  come.  I'll  just  send  out  word  that 
Pahaska  wants  them,  and  they'll  come.  Short 
Bull's  still  alive,  and  No  Neck  and  Women's 
Dress  and  a  lot  of  the  others.  Just  you  wait  and 
see.  They'll  come." 

And  so  the  preparations  went  forward,  until 
at  last  we  gathered  in  the  little  town  of  Pine 
Ridge,  just  at  the  edge  of  the  Indian  reserva- 
tion. Twenty  miles  away  was  Wounded  Knee, 
and  there  we  went  to  camp  until  the  time  when 
the  picture  taking  should  begin. 

305 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Over  the  hills  they  came,  in  wagons,  on  horse- 
back; from  Manderson,  from  the  far  stretches  of 
the  Bad  Lands,  from  the  hills  and  the  valleys, 
the  old  Indians  who  once  had  fought  against 
Buffalo  Bill.  Withered  were  the  faces  of  many 
of  them  now,  old  and  aged  the  arms  that  once 
had  swung  a  tomahawk.  But  with  them  also 
came  their  sons,  the  braves  of  to-day,  strong  and 
young.  By  the  hundreds  they  gathered,  each  to 
come  forward  at  the  sight  of  the  tall,  straight 
man  whose  long  hair  now  had  turned  from  black 
to  white,  to  take  his  hand  and  to  exclaim: 

"How  kola!  Waste  Pahaska!" 

"Waste  Pahaska!"  Good  Pahaska,  it  meant, 
good  Pahaska,  who  was  their  friend.  Time  had 
been  when  they  had  crept  toward  each  other,  each 
with  his  rifle  poised  for  the  first  shot,  but  that 
was  in  the  days  of  the  past.  He  had  been  a  good 
enemy  then,  an  enemy  who  never  took  an  unfair 
advantage,  and  an  enemy  who  never  showed  fear. 
And  that  is  the  sort  of  an  enemy  the  Indian 
reveres.  To-day,  he  was  the  same  sort  of  a  friend 
that  he  had  been  an  enemy,  and  they  obeyed 
his  call  like  the  call  of  some  Great  Master. 

And  so  they  camped,  to  dance  at  night  in  the 
cold  moonlight,  to)  sing  the  wailing  songs  of 

306 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

death  in  memory  of  the  bucks  and  squaws,  buried 
far  up  there  in  the  long  trench  on  the  hill,  the 
victims  of  Wounded  Knee.  Exactly  where  the 
tepees  had  set  on  that  red  day  of  battle  were 
the  tepees  stretched  now,  where  the  braves  sang 
their  death  song  on  that  frigid  afternoon  in  the 
'90's,  now  sang  the  survivors  in  the  bleak  days  of 
autumn  1913.  It  all  had  its  effect.  Sons  of 
braves  who  had  fallen  began  to  talk  among  them- 
selves. Sons  of  squaws  who  had  died,  innocent 
victims  of  the  battle,  began  to  dream  of  a  great 
scheme  of  revenge.  Few  were  they  in  numbers, 
but  their  plan  had  the  ramifications  of  whole- 
sale death. 

Out  on  the  plains  with  us  were  six  hundred 
members  of  the  Twelfth  Cavalry.  From  every 
costuming  company  in  the  East  had  the  old  uni- 
forms been  gathered,  just  such  uniforms  as  were 
worn  in  the  days  when  the  soldiers  were  "boys 
in  blue"  and  khaki  was  a  thing  unknown.  Even 
to  the  old  goloshes  had  the  faith  of  costuming 
gone,  and  to  the  type  of  rifle  carried  by  the  sol- 
diery the  44.70.  And  therein  lay  danger! 

Many  a  rifle  had  remained  on  the  Indian 
reservation  since  that  day  at  Wounded  Knee.  It 
had  become,  in  fact,  the  standard  of  rifle  among 

307 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  older  Indian  families,  and  ammunition — real 
ammunition — was  easily  procured.  When  the 
time  for  the  sham  battle  between  the  Indians  and 
the  soldiers  would  come  to  be  placed  in  film  as 
the  cameras  ground  away,  blanks  were  purposed, 
of  course.  But  suppose — suppose  that  when  those 
Indians  started  their  mimic  fight  against  the  sol- 
diery that  they  gained  a  revenge  for  the  defeat 
of  Wounded  Knee,  and  that  the  rifles  which  they 
carried  had  in  their  barrels  ammunition  that 
was  real,  ammunition  that  was  lead-tipped  and 
deadly,  while  those  of  the  soldiers  contained  only 
blanks ! 

It  was  a  time  of  ferment.  Back  on  the  old 
battlefields  again,  the  hearts  and  minds  of  the 
Indians  were  returning  to  other  days.  Old 
grudges,  that  long  were  forgotten,  began  to  rise 
again.  Councils  were  held — one  afternoon  the 
older  Indians,  not  knowing  of  the  plot  that  was 
beginning  to  teem  in  the  brains  of  younger  bucks, 
told  their  grievances  before  General  Miles  and 
Will,  and  received  from  them  the  promise  that  a 
report  would  be  made  at  Washington.  All 
through  the  camp  were  memories — every  few 
minutes,  some  wailing  squaw  would  make  her 
way  to  the  long  trench  atop  the  hill,  there  to  stare 

308 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

down  at  the  mound  which  contained  the  body  of 
her  loved  ones,  slain  at  Wounded  Knee.  Cease- 
lessly the  death  song  shrilled  through  the  chill 
air — the  Indians  were  living  again  in  the  days 
when  Big  Foot  led  his  band,  and  led  it  to  death. 

By  night,  atop  the  gray  hills,  circles  formed, 
and  dancing  figures  wailed  here  and  there,  while 
the  torn  toms  sounded  and  the  gutteral  shout  of 
the  chieftains  guided  the  dance.  All  about  us 
were  the  reminders  of  a  day  that  was  gone — 
reminders  that  might  bring  death.  And  it  was  in 
the  midst  of  this  that  Will  got  word  of  the  plot. 

Efforts  had  been  made  to  buy  cartridges  in 
large  numbers  for  the  44.70's.  The  requests  had 
been  refused.  But  whether  the  young  Indians 
who  sought  to  bring  about  a  massacre  had  ob- 
tained them  in  other  places — that  was  not  known. 
Hurriedly  Will  assembled  the  chiefs,  the  old 
Indians  whom  he  knew  and  whom  he  could  trust. 
Quickly  he  told  his  story.  Silently  the  old  chiefs 
listened — old  Woman's  Dress,  No  Neck,  Flat- 
iron  and  Short  Bull.  They  grunted,  then  paddled 
away.  Shortly  there  came  the  call  of  the 
haranguer  echoing  through  the  Indian  village: 

"Enokone  eupo!  Enokone  eupo!" 

It  was  the  call  of  assembly — my  spelling,  of 
309 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

course,  is  only  phonetic.  An  hour  more,  and  the 
old  chiefs  were  again  before  their  Great  White 
Chief,  their  Pahaska.  There  would  be  no  bullets 
in  the  guns  when  the  white  men  met  the  Sioux 
before  the  Box  with  the  One  Eye.  The  matter 
had  been  settled.  The  young  braves  had  seen  the 
wrong.  They  would  go — back  whence  they  came. 
Pahaska  need  not  fear  for  his  paleface  friends. 
The  day  of  the  warpath  was  over.  And  so  it 
came  about  that  Short  Bull,  charged  for  years 
with  the  fomenting  of  the  war,  came  to  be  a  peace- 
maker. And  so  it  also  came  about  that  while 
there  at  Wounded  Knee,  back  in  the  environ- 
ment of  the  last  Indian  rebellion,  that  he  told 
his  story  for  the  first  time,  the  story  of  a  griev- 
ing, worn,  old  man,  wrongly  accused  wrongfully 
treated,  wrongfully  used.  For  Ta-ta-la  Slotsla, 
Short  Bull,  by  his  own  story,  was  only  a  tool  in 
the  grip  of  Indian  politics,  a  brave  bringing  the 
word  of  peace,  only  to  find  it  transformed  into 
the  call  of  war. 

It  was  in  his  little  tent  that  he  told  us  the  story, 
to  Theodore  Wharton,  the  director  of  the  history, 
to  Mrs.  Wharton,  to  Will  and  myself.  A  blizzard 
whirled  and  whined  outside,  while  beside  the  little 
stove,  a  faded  old  man,  a  cheap  overcoat  wrapped 

310 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

close  about  him,  huddled  pitifully  in  his  attempt 
at  warmth.  Beside  him  was  his  interpreter,  Horn 
Cloud.  The  marks  of  the  warrior  were  absent 
from  both  of  them  now — no  feathers  or  beads, 
no  tomahawk  or  rifle.  Short  Bull,  he  who  had 
been  blamed  for  a  war,  was  only  a  little,  weasened, 
broken-hearted  old  man.  There  came  a  question, 
an  interpretation,  a  flow  of  words  from  the  old 
chief,  a  smile.  The  interpreter  turned. 

"He  say  you  the  first  person  who  ever  ask 
that,"  came  the  announcement.  "He  say  to 
thank  you — now  he  get  to  tell  the  truth." 

Short  Bull  raised  his  arms.  Long  he  spoke, 
then  in  the  voice  of  the  interpreter,  came  his 
words : 

"They  say  I  am  the  man  who  brought  war. 
No!  I  am  the  man  who  wanted  peace.  All  these 
years  I  have  waited — I  have  been  Ta-ta-la 
Slotsla,  the  man  forgotten  by  his  people.  They 
did  not  want  me  to  tell — because  they  knew  that 
I  would  tell  the  truth.  But  the  Long  Sleep  is 
coming.  Ta-ta-la  Slotsla  will  tell. 

"My  people  were  hungry  in  1888  and  in  1889. 
There  was  no  wood  to  burn  in  the  tepees  and  we 
shivered.  On  the  Rosebud  agency,  where  I  lived 
with  my  people,  the  squaw  and  the  papoose  cried 

311 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

for  food,  but  it  did  not  come.  Then,  all  at  once, 
we  heard  a  message.  The  Messiah  was  coming 
back.  The  White  Man  had  turned  him  out.  The 
White  Man  did  not  love  him  any  more  and  he  was 
coming  back  to  the  Indian.  There  would  be 
food  and  there  would  be  fire  for  the  tepees — the 
Messiah  had  said  so. 

"A  brave  rode  to  the  Rosebud  with  a  message 
from  Red  Cloud  at  the  Pine  Ridge  agency  to 
choose  a  brave-hearted  man  to  go  to  the  Messiah. 
One  chief  was  to  go  from  each  of  the  twelve 
tribes,  and  my  people  chose  me.  I  obeyed.  We 
met  at  the  head  of  Wind  River.  Some  of  us  rode. 
Some  of  us  walked.  It  was  many  sleeps  away, 
but  we  were  going  to  the  Messiah.  He  was  at 
Pyramid  Lake  in  Nevada,  and  he  had  sent  for 
us. 

"It  was  a  long  time  before  we  got  there.  We 
knew  where  to  go — the  messages  had  told  us. 
And  one  afternoon  when  we  waited  in  front  of 
the  great  rocks  at  Pyramid  Lake,  we  looked  up 
and  he  was  there.  He  had  come  out  of  the  air — • 
we  had  not  seen  him  before.  Now,  he  was  there 
and  we  kneeled  down  like  we  kneeled  down  when 
the  missionaries  prayed  for  us." 

Horn  Cloud,  the  interpreter,  spread  his  hands. 
312 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

"I  know  how  about  that,"  he  said.  "He  hid 
behind  big  rocks,  see — then  jump  out.  They 
think  he  float  through  air." 

But  the  story  of  Short  Bull  had  begun  again. 

"It  was  at  the  setting  of  the  sun,  and  the  light 
caught  on  his  robe  and  it  was  all  colors  and 
blazed  like  gold  and  floated  back  to  the  west " 

"Changeable  silk,"  I  heard  some  one  say  softly. 
The  story  went  on. 

"He  say  for  us  to  pray  and  be  glad  that  we  had 
met  the  Messiah.  He  say  good  times  are  coming 
for  the  Indian.  He  say  when  we  go  back  to 
sing  and  dance  for  the  time  would  come  when  the 
Indian  would  not  be  poor.  He  say  that  white 
man  the  Indian's  friend.  And  when  we  look  up, 
he  was  gone." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  I  drew  closer 
to  Will  at  the  shrill  and  the  shriek  of  the  blizzard 
without.  Short  Bull  pulled  the  narrow  collar  of 
his  old  overcoat  closer  about  his  neck  and  spread 
his  withered,  scrawny  old  hands. 

"There  was  a  little  house  by  the  side  of  the  lake 
and  we  slept  in  it,"  he  went  on,  through  his  in- 
terpreter. "Then  next  day,  a  little  white  boy  he 
come  to  us  and  he  say  his  father  want  to  see  us 

in  the  willow  patch " 

313 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

What  fakery!  Not  contenting  himself  with 
imitating  Jesus  Christ,  this  being  of  Pyramid 
Lake  had  even  given  God  a  grandson!  But  evi- 
dently the  Indian,  dazed  as  they  were  by  the  sup- 
posed heavenly  messages  of  this  mysterious  be- 
ing, fired  by  the  thought  of  happiness  to  come, 
did  not  stop  to  think  of  the  inconsistency.  The 
story  was  continued: 

"We  went  to  the  willow  patch.  The  Messiah 
was  waiting — he  had  on  a  shirt  with  marks  on 
it— like  this."  He  lifted  one  of  the  "property" 
ghost  shirts  that  was  being  used  in  the  picture. 
"He  show  us  his  hands  and  there  were  marks 
in  them  where  the  white  man  crucified  him  and 
we  say  that  the  white  man  turn  him  out  but  that 
he  do  not  blame  him.  He  say  that  the  white  man 
had  been  bad  to  him,  but  that  he  was  not  angry. 
He  say  that  the  time  has  come  when  the  White 
Man  and  the  Indian  shall  be  friends,  and  that 
we  must  go  back  and  tell  our  people  that  they 
must  live  with  the  White  Man  in  Peace. 

"He  says" — Ta-ta-la  Slotsla  was  becoming 
vehement  now — "that  we  must  tell  our  people  to 
stamp  out  all  trouble.  He  say  that  our  children 
must  go  to  the  White  Man's  school,  and  that  by 
and  by  our  children's  children  will  grow  to  be  the 

814 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

husbands  and  wives  of  the  white  woman  and  the 
white  man.  Then  there  will  be  no  White  Man, 
no  Indian;  we  will  all  be  one.  'Do  as  I  say,'  he 
say,  'and  on  earth  you  will  be  together  and  in 
heaven  you  will  be  together.  And  then,  there 
will  be  no  nights,  no  sleeps,  no  hunger  and  no 
cold.'  And  we  listened,  and  we  were  happy. 

"He  taught  us  to  dance  and  he  say  for  us  to 
make  ghost  shirts  like  he  wear  and  dance  in  them 
and  praise  the  Messiah.  He  say  for  us  to  go 
home  and  spread  the  news  that  the  Messiah  had 
said  for  us  to  be  at  peace.  And  then  he  went 
away." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  When  Short  Bull's 
voice  began  again,  it  was  strange  and  cold  and 
hard. 

"I  went  to  my  people.  I  told  them  what  the 
Messiah  had  said,  and  they  danced  and  were 
glad.  Then  Red  Cloud,  down  at  the  Pine  Ridge 
agency,  sent  for  me  and  I  went  and  American 
Horse  and  Fast  Thunder  and  Red  Cloud,  they 
ask  me  what  the  Messiah  had  said,  and  I  told 
them.  But  they  went  out  and  told  their  people 
that  I  had  said  other  things."  His  hands  were 
clenched  hard.  "They  say  I  tell  them  that  the 
Messiah  he  tell  me  to  get  my  people  and  drive 

815 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

the  White  Man  back  into  the  sea.  They  say  I 
tell  them  that  the  Messiah  promise  to  bring  back 
the  buffalo  and  the  antelope  if  they  drive  the 
White  Man  away. 

"I  went  back  to  my  people,  but  they  had  heard 
what  Red  Cloud  and  American  Horse  and  Fast 
Thunder  had  said.  I  begged  them  to  shut  their 
ears  to  the  evil  words  of  those  who  did  not  speak 
truth.  But  they  were  dancing  now,  and  build- 
ing fires  and  they  would  not  listen  to  me. 

"American  Horse  and  Red  Cloud  and  Fast 
Thunder  sent  me  the  ghost  shirts  to  bless — and 
I  blessed  them.  But  when  I  sent  them  back,  they 
told  their  people  that  I  had  made  them  bullet- 
proof. They  say  that  the  Messiah  he  make  me 
so  I  can  stop  my  people  from  being  hurt  by  the 
guns  of  the  White  Man.  Then  they  send  for 
me  and  tell  me  to  come  to  Pine  Ridge  and  fight 
the  White  Man.  But  I  say  'No!  I  have  seen  the 
Messiah.  I  have  seen  the  Man  of  God.  I  will 
live  in  peace.  The  Messiah  he  say  to  love  the 
White  Man  and  I  will  love  him.' 

"The  Brule  Sioux  went  through  to  the  war- 
path and  they  tell  me  to  come  along.  But  I  stay 
on  the  Rosebud.  Old  Two  Strikes  moved  his 
camp  from  the  Little  White  River  toward  the 

816 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

Pine  Ridge  Agency,  but  I  stayed  on  the  Rose- 
bud. Then  the  young  men  ordered  me  to  follow 
Two  Strikes  and  I  did. 

"They  wanted  cartridges,  but  I  would  not  help 
get  them.  They  say  for  me  to  fight  the  White 
Man,  but  I  say  'No!'" 

The  little  man  had  risen  now  and  was  pacing 
up  and  down.  Over  in  the  corner,  his  squaw  was 
wailing.  The  thin  hands  of  Ta-ta-la  Slotsla 
rose  high  in  the  air. 

"  'No!  No!'  I  tell  them,  'No!  I  keep  calling  to 
you  and  you  do  not  hear  me!  I  try  to  tell  you 
there  shall  be  no  war;  you  will  not  listen.  You 
say  the  white  soldiers  will  kill  me?  Then  I  will 
die — I  will  not  fight  back.  Once  I  was  a  warrior, 
once  I  wore  the  shield  and  the  war  club  and  the 
war  bonnet ;  but  I  have  seen  the  Holy  Man.  Now 
there  is  peace;  now  there  shall  stay  peace. 

'You  choose  me  as  the  brave-hearted  one  to 
journey  to  the  sunset  to  see  the  Messiah.  I  saw 
him  and  I  brought  you  his  message.  You  would 
not  hear  it.  You  changed  it.  Now'  " — he  spread 
his  hands  and  bowed  his  black-haired  head,  in 
memory  of  a  gesture  of  other  days,  "  'I  am 
silent.' " 

The  wind  of  the  blizzard  without  had  risen  to 
317 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

a  higher  pitch,  mingling  with  the  wailing  of  the 
squaw  in  the  corner.  Short  Bull  folded  his 
hands. 

"The  next  day  I  saddled  my  horse.  I  rode 
away.  I  came  to  the  pine  hills  and  looked  out 
into  the  distance.  They  were  fighting  the  Battle 
of  Wounded  Knee.  I  went  on.  And  yet  they 
blame  me  for  a  war — my  own  people  who  had 
sent  me  to  the  sunset  to  talk  to  the  Holy  Man." 

The  old  man  was  silent,  huddling  himself  again 
by  the  side  of  the  rickety  little  stove.  The  song 
of  the  squaw  wavered  and  died  away.  She  crept 
forward  and  took  her  place  by  the  side  of  the 
man  who  was  her  brave,  the  man  who  had  been 
blamed  for  a  hundred  deaths,  yet  who  in  her  eyes, 
at  least,  was  ever  blameless.  And  together  we 
left  them,  the  faithful  old  squaw,  and  the  broken- 
hearted, weasened  old  Indian  who  had  seen  and 
talked  to  God. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AND  now,  my  story  is  ending.  Indeed,  the 
years  of  Will's  show  days  were  crammed  with 
excitement,  with  many  an  accident  in  the  long 
rushing  journeys  of  the  trains,  many  a  "blow- 
down"  and  many  a  thrill.  Yet,  they  were  not 
the  thrills  that  either  of  us  had  known  in  the  old 
days — they  were  more  of  an  echo,  for  the  day  of 
the  old  West  that  we  had  known  in  its  raw,  rough 
days,  was  gone.  Will  had  seen  his  desires  ful- 
filled, he  had  watched  the  West  grow  until  it  was 
all  that  he  had  hoped  for  it — and  saw  in  the 
future  a  greater  dream  of  empire  than  even  he 
had  imagined  back  in  the  days  of  Hays  City  and 
our  buffalo  hunts.  The  paths  that  had  been  trod 
by  Indians  were  now  the  paths  of  industry. 
Automobiles  shot  here  and  there  in  perfect  safety 
about  the  plains  where  the  bison  once  had  roamed, 
and  where  the  danger  of  death  lay  in  every  hill 
and  valley  and  hummock. 

Side  by  side,  there  were  three  of  us  who 
watched  the  years  fade,  and  the  sunset  grow 

319 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

nearer — Will,  dear  faithful  old  Major  Burke, 
and  myself.  The  season  of  1916  ended  and  to- 
gether Will  and  I  came  to  Denver,  where  he 
planned  to  meet  Johnny  Baker  whose  face  now 
had  begun  to  bear  a  few  wrinkles  in  the  place  of 
the  freckles  that  had  shown  there  the  day  he  asked 
Will  to  let  him  black  his  boots  on  the  circus.  The 
meeting  was  to  make  plans  for  a  new  show,  for  a 
greater  show,  for  in  spite  of  the  various  vicissi- 
tudes of  the  Wild  West  exhibition  business,  Will 
still  believed  in  it.  One  thing  had  been  borne  to 
him,  through  the  never  failing  worship  of  Youth- 
ful America,  that  he  was  an  idol  who  never  could 
be  replaced,  that  as  long  as  there  were  boys,  and 
as  long  as  those  boys  had  red  blood  in  their  veins, 
they  would  thrill  at  the  sight  of  him  they  loved, 
and  cheer  the  sounding  reverberation  of  his  great, 
booming  voice  as  he  whirled  into  the  arena  on 
his  great,  white  horse,  came  to  a  swinging  stop 
before  the  grandstand,  and  raised  his  hand  for 
the  famous  salute  from  the  saddle. 

Will  had  not  aged,  in  spite  of  his  years.  He 
still  was  lithe  and  strong,  still  able  to  grip  the  ribs 
of  his  horse  with  strong,  clinging  knees,  still  able 
to  raise  his  rifle  and  aim  it  with  deadly  effect.  It 
had  been  only  a  year  before  that  he  had  fought 

320 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

his  way  through  the  snows  about  our  home  at 
Cody,  and  brought  home  a  buck  deer,  felled  with 
a  shot  from  his  rifle. 

He  had  not  aged,  and  his  heart  was  young. 
But  the  years,  in  spite  of  the  light  weight  they 
apparently  made  upon  his  shoulders,  were  fight- 
ing and  fighting  hard  against  the  resolve  that  was 
in  his  mind,  to  live  on  and  on,  forever. 

I  went  back  to  Cody,  only  to  start  at  the  sight 
of  the  editor  of  the  little  town  paper,  bringing 
me  the  news  that  Will  was  seriously  ill.  But 
with  his  arrival  there  came  a  messenger  from  the 
telegraph  station,  with  a  telegram  from  Will. 

"Don't  believe  exaggerated  reports  about  my 
illness,"  it  read.  "They're  trying  to  tell  me  I'm 
going  to  die.  But  I've  still  got  my  boots  on,  and 
they  can't  kill  me,  Mamma.  They've  tried  it 
before." 

I  laughed  as  I  read  it.  Time  and  again  had 
the  reports  of  his  approaching  death  shot  over 
the  country — almost  with  every  illness  in  his  later 
years  did  the  rumor  go  forth,  and  this  telegram 
assured  me  that  here  was  only  another  exagger- 
ated report,  only  another  wild  rumor.  But 

He  wired  me  that  he  was  going  to  Glenwood 
Springs,  and  that  the  waters  there  would  Help 

321 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

him.  At  the  depot  in  Denver,  the  reporters 
clustered  about  him,  asking  him  about  his  illness. 
But  he  laughed  at  them  and  at  the  rumors.  For 
was  he  not  on  his  feet?  Did  he  not  have  his  boots 
on?  Why,  next  season,  he  was  going  to  start  out 
with  the  biggest  show  that  he  ever  had  known — 
one  that  would  even  make  his  exhibition  at  the 
Chicago  World's  Fair  seem  diminutive.  And  how 
were  we  to  know  that  already  his  mind  was 
wandering,  that  the  person  who  was  speaking  was 
not  Will  Cody,  the  strong,  able-bodied  man  who 
had  fought  the  plains,  but  only  a  shell,  only  a 
living  thing  that  fought  the  approach  of  death 
even  as  he  had  fought  the  fight  for  the  upbuilding 
of  the  West — fighting  until  the  last  atom  of  en- 
ergy and  reserve  should  be  exhausted? 

He  did  not  know,  those  about  him  did  not 
know,  I  did  not  know.  But  the  news  must  come 
and  it  hurried  over  the  telegraph  wires  twenty- 
four  hours  later,  a  message  from  his  physician : 

"Colonel  Cody  is  slowly  but  surely  dying. 
There  is  no  hope  whatever  for  him.  We  are 
bringing  him  back  to  Denver." 

It  was  there  that  I  met  him,  a  frail,  white- 
faced  man,  the  long  white  hair  clinging  about  his 
temples,  the  lips  thin  and  white  and  wan — but  a 

322 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

man,  fighting  to  the  end.  He  laughed  at  my 
tears,  he  patted  my  cheek,  and  strove  to  assemble 
again  the  old,  booming  voice.  But  it  was  weak 
now  and  breaking. 

"Don't  worry,  Mamma,"  he  said  time  after 
time,  "I'm  going  to  be  all  right.  The  doctor 
says  I'm  going  to  die,  does  he?  Well,  I'm  pretty 
much  alive  just  now,  ain't  I.  I've  still  got  my 
boots  on.  I'll  be  all  right." 

But  as  the  days  passed,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  still  "kept  his  boots  on,"  he  began  to  realize. 
The  last  fight  was  ending — ending  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  struggling  against  it  with  every 
fiber  of  his  being.  Long  years  in  the  past,  up  at 
Cody,  he  and  I  once  had  talked  of  death,  as  we 
looked  out  toward  the  vari-colored  mountains 
which  hedged  in  our  little  town.  And  then  he 
had  told  me  of  his  desires — to  be  buried  up  there, 
where  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  touched  the  hills  at 
night,  where  the  first  glad  glow  sent  its  bright 
rays  upward  in  the  dawn.  Then  he  had  told  me 
that  he  had  wanted  to  spend  his  last  days  in  the 
little  town  he  had  founded,  up  there  in  his  hotel, 
which  bore  his  daughter's  name. 

Now,  he  was  too  weak.  With  every  bit  of 
strength  he  had  he  struggled  daily  into  his  cloth- 

323 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

ing  that  he  might  still  strive  on  "with  his  boots 
on."  His  body  was  literally  living  off  itself — 
yet  he  fought  on,  still  he  strove  to  laugh  away 
our  fears,  and  joke  about  the  inevitable. 

"Not  dead  yet!"  He  would  shake  his  long 
locks  and  raise  his  head.  "No  sirree,  not  dead 
yet!  I'm  a  pretty  much  alive  dead  man,  I  am. 
I've  still  got  my  boots  on!" 

But — it  was  on  the  day  before  the  end  came — 
he  very  quietly  viewed  the  subject  in  a  different 
light. 

"I  want  to  be  buried  on  top  of  Mount  Look- 
out. It's  right  over  Denver.  You  can  look  down 
into  four  states  there.  It's  pretty  up  there.  I 
want  to  be  buried  up  there — instead  of  in 
Wyoming." 

Then  he  swerved  back  to  the  old  fight  again. 
That  night  he  played  a  game  of  solitaire  and 
joked  about  what  the  doctors  had  said  regarding 
his  condition.  He  tried  to  bring  a  smile  to  our 
lips — we  were  all  at  the  home  of  Mrs.  Lou 
Decker,  his  sister — but  the  effort  was  feeble. 
Now  and  then  he  would  turn  anxiously,  as  though 
watching  the  door. 

"I  wish  Johnny  would  come!"  he  said  again  and 
again — Johnny  Baker  who  was  racing  across 

324 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

country  in  the  vain  hope  of  being  able  to  speak  a 
good-by  to  his  "Guv'nor;"  Johnny  Baker,  who, 
as  a  freckle-faced  boy,  had  begged  for  a  chance 
to  black  his  boots,  Johnny  Baker  who  loved  him 
and  who  was  beloved  by  him.  Then  he  asked  for 
Burke — but  Burke  was  far  away  too.  The  hours 
dragged  on. 

Ten  o'clock  came  on  the  tenth  of  January,  and 
with  it  unconsciousness.  At  twelve  o'clock,  the 
messages  began  to  speed  across  the  world.  Buf- 
falo Bill,  my  Will,  was  dead. 

Out  of  a  haze  I  remember  the  next  few  days, 
the  long  throngs  of  people  stretching  for  blocks 
about  the  Colorado  Statehouse  where  his  body 
lay  in  state,  the  riderless,  white  horse  that  once 
he  had  strode  in  his  salute  from  the  saddle,  walk- 
ing behind  the  flag-draped  casket  which  carried 
his  body,  the  tolling  bells,  the  scurrying  mes- 
senger boys,  bringing  condolences  even  from 
kings  and  presidents.  Atop  Mount  Lookout,  we 
kept  his  wish,  far  up  toward  the  heaven,  where 
below  can  be  seen  the  stretches  of  the  plains  of 
Kansas  and  Nebraska,  the  hills  of  Colorado  and 
the  hummocks  of  Wyoming — his  old  roving 
places  of  other  days.  There  we  said  good-by,  and 

now 

325 


MEMORIES  OF  BUFFALO  BILL 

And  now,  up  here  in  Cody,  I  face  the  sunset. 
My  children  are  gone  —  Arta  following  an  opera- 
tion, Irma  as  a  result  of  the  epidemic  which 
claimed  its  toll  even  out  here  in  the  far  West. 
I  am  alone,  my  life  lived,  my  hands  folded.  I 
have  seen  them  all  go,  one  by  one,  according  to 
the  will  of  the  Great  Dictator;  and  it  is  hard 
to  say  the  last  good-by  and  stay  behind. 

Yes,  mv  life  is  lived,  and  out  here  in  the  West, 
where  each  evening  brings  a  more  wonderful, 
more  beautiful  blending  at  sunset,  I  watch  the 
glorious  colorings  and  feel  a  sense  of  satisfaction 
that  it  will  not  be  long  now  until  I  see  the  fading 
of  the  sunset  of  my  own  little  world,  until  the 
time  shall  come  when  I  am  with  the  children  I 
loved,  and  the  man  I  loved  —  on  the  Trail  Beyond. 


THE  END 


C6 
CO) 


